AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 



LETTERS, 



OF 



THE AUTHOR OF "THE LISTENER," 
"CHRIST OUR LAW," &c. 



J. W. MOORE, 

f 

193 CUES T'N'TJ T £J T ft E E T. 
1819. 



3K>i f 

Us fa 







7 



Isaac Ashmead, Printer. 



• • • • • • 



• ••• 

' ' • • 






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PREFACE. 



The Editor considers it due to the memory of 
the subject of the memoir, which is placed at the 
commencement of the present volume, to state, that 
it was written by his beloved wife at different 
periods, as memoranda of the most important part 
of her life ; intended to be continued from time to 
time, until they should be ultimately remodelled 
into a connected narrative. 

She did not live to fulfil this intention; and it 
must therefore be remembered, that these imperfect 
records were never designed to be published in 
their present form ; but well knowing her anxious 
wish to proclaim the Saviour's love to one who 
had despised and rejected him, and her conviction 
that by such an avowal, his grace would be magni- 
fied, the editor deems himself entrusted with a 
sacred duty, which he cannot better perform, than 
by giving the narrative, scanty and imperfect as it 

i - D 



J v PREFACE. 

is, in her own words. He presents it, therefore, 
without comment, and unaccompanied with any 
particulars of her history subsequent to the period 
at which her own memoir closes. 

After the change which had taken place in her 
religious sentiments, the subject of this memoir was 
severely disciplined in the school of adversity, and 
no doubt her sorrows were instrumental in estab- 
lishing her faith, exalting her Christian profession, 
and fitting her for the special service of that Mas- 
ter, whose love was the constraining principle of 
her life. Of this devotedness her published works 
furnish abundant testimony; and those letters of 
the present collection, which were written within 
a few days of her death, will give evidence of the 
power and permanence of that faith which sustained 
her through a long period of trial, made the ap- 
proach of death joyous, and prepared her for the 
heaven which she so ardently anticipated. No one 
who witnessed the closing hours of her life could 
refrain from adopting the prophet's exclamation, 
" Let me die the death of the righteous, and let my 
last end be like his !" 

Many of the letters now published are interest- 
ing, as containing valuable reflections on topics of 
the deepest interest to the Church of Christ at the 



PREFACE. 



present period ; and the others are replete with the 
sentiments and opinions of one " who walked with 
God." 

The Editor dismisses these collections, ardently 
hoping that the perusal of them may be accom- 
panied with the Divine blessing, and that while 
they conduce to the edification, comfort and en- 
couragement of many, they may be subservient to 
the praise of Him, who, in accomplishing the mys- 
terious designs of His grace and providence, not 
unfrequently condescends to employ the humblest 
instrumentality of human agency. 



CONTENTS 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

CHAPTER I.— Birth and Childhood, - - 13 

II. — Early Youth, - - - - 39 

III. — Early Womanhood, - - - 46 

IV. — Conversion, - - - - - 60 

LETTERS, 82 



AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



Since it has pleased God to give publicity to a 
name obscure, to an extent that may hereafter 
excite the public curiosity respecting her that bore 
it ; and since it may please Him also to get himself 
honour by the manifestation of His goodness and 
mercy, in the record of her life — feeling that it will 
be impossible for any one else, to state truly that 
which alone is worth recording, — the history of her 
mental and spiritual existence, — she is induced to 
put down at her leisure these notices of herself; 
rendered the more necessary by the fact, that she 
has never kept a diary, or any kind of memoranda, 
of even the most important occurrences of her life. 
Should that time ever come, which in the plenitude 
of her happiness it becomes her to anticipate, when 
with powers and faculties remaining, the interests 
and affections of this world will have terminated, 
it is her present thought to collate these materials, 
and such of her letters as can be collected, into a 
regular memoir. Of this, God knoweth. 1839. 



MEMOIRS, &c. 



CHAPTER I. 

BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 

Caroline Fry was born at Tunbridge Wells on the 
31st of December, 1787, being one of ten children, 
and seven daughters. 

Of her who makes these records, the remotest 
recollections are of a most happy and too indulgent 
home, where, without the elegances or the restraints 
of polite, or even social life, every comfort was in 
profuse abundance, and all pleased themselves after 
their own manner. 

Being the youngest but one of a family whose 
births extended through more than twenty years, she 
remembers but few of her brothers and sisters as 
children, and the prescriptive right by which the 
youngest child of a large family is spoiled, was ex- 
tended in her favour to the two youngest, the hu- 
moured pets of a most loving father. He never 
walked out but they were one at each side of him — 
they accompanied him during great part of the day 
to his farm, or his houses, the building of which was 
2 



24 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

his great pursuit and pleasure. He called them his 
ladies, chose their dress, taught them to read the news- 
papers, talk of politics, and play at whist with him 
every evening, and above all, under surety of his 
protection, to set at defiance all other authority and 
control. I have been told that on his death-bed he 
spoke painfully of having spoiled his two youngest 
children, then about twelve and fourteen years of 
age. He did not foresee what adversity and the in- 
terposition of divine grace would do to mend his 
work ; so that, however their difficulties were in- 
creased, and their sins accumulated by this early in- 
dulgence, they grew up to be neither the least be- 
loved, the least useful, nor the least prosperous of 
his children. 

And yet the fear of this indulgent father's dis- 
approbation, was the only restraint Caroline re- 
members to have felt. His absence from home for 
a whole day, which never occurred but at a general 
election, a special jury case, or some other such 
event, was a signal for the outbreaks of insurbordi- 
nation, and the doing of all sorts of prohibited 
things: — her other parent being a quiet, careful, do- 
mestic woman, an object more of affection than 
deference, at least to these little people, who held 
themselves out of her jurisdiction. 

More influential even than this partial fondness, 
was the father's abiding impression, whencesoever 
derived, that his children were, or were to be, or 
ought to be, above the position of life in which they 
were born — his sons were not to be brought up to 



B1RTU AND CHILDHOOD. 15 

trade — his daughters might not marry men in trade 
— his little girls might not associate or play with any 
children of equal condition with themselves. To this 
inborn, inbred opinion of their own importance, pro- 
ductive of some good results no doubt, must be at- 
tributed no small part of the difficulties and misfor- 
tunes of their family after their father's death, and 
the little success that attended most of them notwith- 
standing the more than ordinary talents distributed 
to them by Providence, and in a moral and human 
sense, their actual deserving. The grace of God, 
and the calling of his Holy Spirit, determined, we 
cannot doubt, the destiny of the eldest son, the Rev. 
John Fry, Rector of Desford, sufficiently well known 
as the author of many works of talent, piety, and 
learning. 

On Caroline the only effect of this parental am- 
bition, was probably that which it had upon her edu- 
cation, and early associations, rather than upon her 
ultimate destination. She inclines to think that even 
education rather left her what she was, than made 
her anything. Her recollection of her own charac- 
ter, temper, feeling, is from the first so very like to 
what it was at last, it would appear to her that na- 
ture has been too strong for any influences acting 
from without — at least till a divine power interposed 
to alter its own workmanship, and that but slowly 
and partially to the last, rather to modify than to 
change. Back to eight or ten years of age, she can 
well remember that intense, unreasonable, almost 
maddening anguish, which through all the changes 



16 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



of her changeful life has known no suspension, and 
up to this day no diminution, produced upon her by 
a sense of unkindness, or injustice, or discourage- 
ment, often imaginary, always exaggerated. Nobody 
knew then, or ever has known, or ever can know, 
the mental agony of these moments, followed by fits 
of depression, self-reproach, and despondency hereto- 
fore scarcely endurable, but now, blessed be God, 
commixed with that prostration of spirit, and utter 
self-abandonment, which is not all misery, since in it 
is realized the full value of redeeming love, and the 
sweet sympathy of a once-suffering Redeemer. He 
know T s, what she never herself has known, how 
much of this passion is sin, and how much is only 
misery. The bitter and resentful words to which, if 
the occasion serves, it will give vent, are sin of course, 
and the pain thus given to others, is often the bitter- 
est and most abiding woe ; but this is rather the 
casualty, than the character of these passionate fits : 
— unless something from without unhappily strikes 
upon the wound in the moment of irritation, the 
originating cause of which may be no party to the 
suffering, it is endured in secrecy and silence. 

Reverting to her childhood, she remembers to have 
often passed whole days and nights in tears;* and 
when pressed by her parents for the cause, unable or 
ashamed to give the true one, has complained of pain 

* At all times of her life these violent and prolonged fits of 
crying have occasionally occurred. Were they not the safety- 
valves of an over-actuated brain] 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. \J 

and sickness which she did not feel, and suffered 
them to administer remedies as for a bodily ailment. 
She has often questioned since, whether those tender 
parents did not judge more accurately than appeared, 
of these fits of aggravated feeling; for she well re- 
members that the remedial measures taken to restore 
her, were a piece of cold meat at breakfast, a glass 
of strong ale at dinner, or a cup of coffee in the even- 
ing. Whatever there may have been since, when 
knowledge of the extravagance, and experience of the 
mischiefs of these morbid sensibilities might have 
afforded some defence against them, there was no 
sin in them at that early age, and the memory of 
what she suffered has throughout life produced in 
her the greatest tenderness and forbearance towards 
the tempers and feelings of children, and a disposition 
to treat them more as maladies than faults.* To the 
truth of this, though ignorant of the cause, many can 

* Tt is distinctly in her recollection that on one occasion, 
wanting to make known to her mother the depression of her 
mind, and not having* courage to speak of it, being then a pro- 
fessed rhymer, she wrote to her in the following terms, — of the 
last word she did not know the meaning, and remembers being 
told it afterwards. She was probably about nine years old : — 

I am not very well, 

And no mortal can tell 

What is my pain, 

When I am profane, 
— no specimen of early genius, but certainly one of premature 
mental suffering, without external cause — for to misfortune or 
bodily pain she was a stranger, and almost so to the slightest 
contradiction. 

2* 



18 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



testify who may hereafter read these pages, some 
perhaps who have either suffered or benefited by in- 
dulgence, according as it w 7 as good or evil in its 
effects upon those committed to her care. For her- 
self, through those long and many years in which 
she lived a stranger in the stranger's home, her 
thoughts untold, her feelings all unshared, it may be, 
there were some who understood her better than she 
understood herself; and can tell in w T hat manner this 
feeling manifested itself, and will call it by its right 
name. They need not spare to do so, for she would 
if she knew. All she can recal with certainty, is the 
intensity of her sufferings, and the strangeness and 
unfitness, to say the least, of the conduct it occasion- 
ally produced, of which more will be told hereafter.* 
In these her last, best days, when all is viewed by 
the clear light of heaven, all transacted under the eye 
of the Omniscient, all shared, all treated of, all pray- 
ed over in close communion with the blessed Saviour, 
the only amelioration of the pain is found in that 
sweet sympathy. 

But that which through all her life she longed for, 
as an impossible solace, that some one could dwell 
within her, and see what she herself could never 
understand, — that solace, that impossibility, has been 
attained. Jesus, before whom these irrational tears 



* Sleep — even the peaceful slumbers of her most happy days, 
is often no defence against this suffering — under the influence 
of a dream of some act of unkindness or injustice done her, she 
often wakes in an agony of tears. 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 



19 



are shed, Jesus, with whom these morbid sensibilities 
a v shared — He does know — He knows how much is 
sin, how much is misery — how much to be repented 
of, and how much only to be borne ; and He can sym- 
pathize alike with all, for He and He only pities sin, 
as much as He pities sorrow, and speaks peace to 
the contrite, as well as to the afflicted. Under the 
deep sense of sin, and helplessness, and self-abhor- 
rence, that now accompanies every return of this 
mental anguish, and adds to its poignancy, she need 
not tell him, and He need not tell her, the source and 
nature and culpability of her feelings. She can say 
to him — and O thou blessed one ! how 7 often hast thou 
heard it! — "Lord! thou knowest," and he can answer 
" My grace is sufficient for thee." It is sufficient ; 
sufficient for Jonah in the great deep, whither his 
own wilfulness had brought him ; and for Daniel in 
the den to which his enemies consigned him, and for 
her who in hours of such deep and untold anguish, 
as made her cry aloud to God for release from the 
body of this death, knows and feels and proves He is 
sufficient — and puts it here, where properly it does 
not belong, lest she should never reach that part 
of her soul's history, in which it should be found: — 
183S. 

To return to her childhood ; the same restless im- 
patience of what she did not like, even when person- 
ally unaffected by it; the same eagerness in the pur- 
suits of the moment, and speedy indifference to the 
objects so eagerly pursued; the same extreme en- 
joyment of simple and trifling things, even existence 



20 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

itself without adventitious pleasures, when there was 
no actual cloud upon it, the same disproportioned 
pain from trifles, also, brief as it was excessive — the 
same very peculiar contrariety of character, that kept 
perpetual dissonance between the intellect and feel- 
ings, — in common language, between the head and 
heart, the judgment that seldom erred, and the feel- 
ings by which it was always overpowered — the same 
excessive desire to please, and aptness to displease 
by precipitancy and want of tact — the same innate 
consciousness of talent, and painful timidity in the 
exercise and exhibition of it — all this, through all 
her life, she can trace back to her remotest 
memory of herself; much indeed that education 
might have corrected and did not, but left to 
grow like the wild rose of the wilderness, in strange 
and rude luxuriance, all redolent alike of thorns and 
flowers, to feel and know,and painfullyregret through 
all her days, she was not, and could not be, what her 
natural endowments seemed designed to make her. 
Now she knows that herein God was right, though 
man was wrong; for it resulted that the conscious- 
ness of talent was at all times more a source of hu- 
miliation than of pride. When she might have felt 
elevated above her fellows, she felt only degraded 
below herself; and where is the sinner so safe as in 
the dust? True these are late conclusions, that did 
not cast their consolatory influence through the years 
gone by, but they are conclusions, and she has come 
to say with Paul, " I glory in my infirmities, since 
when I am weak, then am I strong;" — it is best to 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 21 

be nothing, that Christ may be all in all. How little 
is it known to the aspirants of mankind, that such a 
feeling, when it can be realized, is bliss, with which 
the triumphant successes of the creature have nothing 
to compare. 

Caroline had not to complain of a neglected edu- 
cation, as far as education is comprehended in mere 
instruction. School was not to be thought of; she 
never slept from under the same roof with her father 
during his life-time, nor as she believes ever was ten 
miles from home but once, when he took her and her 
younger sister, on a visit to their brother, then recent- 
ly married and settled in London. The instruction 
of the younger girls was therefore committed to the 
elder, who had been educated at w 7 hat were then 
thought good schools ; the aspirings of the family ex- 
tended both to knowledge and accomplishments, and 
though the opportunities were small, the most was 
made of them; and at a time when girls in that sta- 
tion of life learned very little, and were thought best 
employed in domestic duties, and the operation of 
the needle, in this family every thing was at least at- 
tempted, and books, drawing, and music were the oc- 
cupations of the younger people — the return of the 
eldest brother from Oxford at each vacation afford- 
ing a great stimulus to this literary taste, by acces- 
sion of books and other information which could 
scarcely otherwise have reached them, in their ex- 
clusion from the reading world. Many studies were 
thus introduced, which common as they are now, 
were not so then — such as Botany, Chemistry, As- 



22 AN AUTOBIOGRAPY. 

tronomy, &c, and the young people being all con- 
siderably gifted by nature, were prodigies of learn- 
ing in the estimation of their equals. Often as the 
recollections of this irregular school-room and its 
high pretensions, have since provoked a smile, 
Caroline knows she was indebted to it for a great 
deal of solid, early acquiied knowledge, which the 
most expensive school at that period would not have 
afforded; while some of its deficiencies have never 
ceased to be inconveniently felt. 

She has no recollection of pain or difficulty, or un- 
willingness in learning — but a distinct one of plea- 
sure in buying a sixpenny book, (the History of a 
Mouse) the first she remembers to have possessed, 
when she could have been but a very few years old. 
It is not to be supposed, that her partial and loving 
parents should underrate or disregard the first de- 
velopment of talent, little as they did to cultivate 
and direct it. At eight years old, little Caroline was 
an established poet laureate in the family, who was 
to write a copy of verses on every birth-day, saints- 
day, fast-day or thanksgiving-day, and every victory 
by sea, or land, sufficiently numerous in those war- 
like days; in the inspiring hope of receiving presents 
of money or pretty things, from whoever had the good 
fortune to receive the dedications of her muse. It is 
doubtful whether any of these, at least profitable pro- 
ductions, extending as they did from eight to four- 
teen years of age, are still in existence ; — if they are, 
it must be in the hands of her sisters. She has the 



BIfiTH AND CHILDHOOD. 23 

impression that they were not so good as a great 
many children write at that age. 

However, they were not thought slightly of then, 
and that destiny so vainly afterwards resisted, was 
the first ambition of her life — to be an author, 
especially to be a poet ; for general as was her taste 
for reading, and eager as her interest in all kinds of 
knowledge, poetry was undoubtedly the predominant 
taste. Some trifling circumstances, distinct, as if of 
yesterday, upon her memory, may evince how strong 
and inborn this literary ambition was. Well is the 
feeling remembered, with which, sitting upon her 
father's knee, she heard a conversation between him 
and her mother, originated by his declaration, that 
he would have his two youngest girls taught Latin. 
It was an extravagant proposition certainly, consider- 
ing the actual station of the parties, and the rarity of 
the accomplishment at that period, but proportioned 
to her intense desire for learning was her silent re- 
sentment against her mother for the opposition that 
defeated this intent. Her childish impression of the 
necessity of knowing other languages, in order to be- 
come an author in her own, was a source of contin- 
ual discouragement and depression to her, for she 
guessed not how easy it would be to attain them for 
herself. She remembers saying to some one of her 
family, on it being suggested that she might be a 
Milton, her then favourite author; — that she could 
never expect poetical fame, because she would never 
have the means of knowing any language but her 
own; a saying that often recurred to her in after-life, 



24 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

when the study of languages became her favourite 
pursuit, after poetry had been pretty nearly relinquish- 
ed. Illustrative of this learned ambition, the only 
ambition perhaps that she was ever susceptible of, 
she recals another of her childish feelings. Her 
father's house was opposite the Parade, or Pantiles, 
as they were called at Tunbridge Wells, the resort 
at that time of the greatest and noblest of the land, 
whom, as children do, the little girls were in the 
habit of looking at, and watching from the windows 
most particularly those who happened to have chil- 
dren of their own age, — indeed, as their father's ob- 
jection to his children associating with others, did 
not extend to those above them, the two little girls, 
being pretty well dressed, and well-mannered chil- 
dren, often went to play or walk with the young 
ladies whom they contrived to become acquainted 
with as children do. Among the great things and 
gay things thus constantly before their eyes, was the 
handsome equipage of the Duke of Northumberland, 
whose carriage and four brought every day under 
the windows two little girls, some few years older ■ 
than Caroline, then about ten or eleven ; who became, 
as was so natural, the objects of her curiosity and 
envy ; but the envy took a single direction, it never 
occurred to her to want the titles, or the equipage, 
or the dress of these little girls, but she remembers 
now the painful moody sadness, with which she sat 
and looked at them, and thought how many things 
they could learn, how many masters they could have; 
— it may seem an overdrawn statement, but it is dis- 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 25 

tinct to her as if of yesterday ; a bitter repining at 
her lot, which no one can remember but herself, 
because no one ever knew it— had the feeling been 
less strong, the impression would not have remain- 
ed. From this and other recollections, it has al- 
ways appeared to her a great disadvantage to 
young people of the middle ranks, to be brought 
up in a public watering-place, where they are in 
juxtaposition and more near comparison with their 
superiors in wealth and station, than is likely to oc- 
cur elsewhere — thestirrings of rivalry andambition 
so excited, are not always of so harmless a nature 
in the issue, as little Caroline Fry's longings to- 
wards the house of Percy. 

Among the means of instruction within herreach 
indiscriminate reading was the most important. 
The house, for the period, was not very ill supplied 
with school-books, and childish literature — such as 
it was when Mrs. Trimmer was a high authority, 
and Mrs. H. More, and Mrs. Hamilton, &c, were 
beginning to write. But the great supply was in 
the two circulating libraries, usually pertaining to 
a watering-place, to both of which her father was 
a subscriber ; and, whence she was allowed lo 
fetch what she pleased, without the smallest gui- 
dance or restraint, or so much as advice upon 
what she had better read or not read. As no other 
person read much in the house, the library cata- 
logues were little C's peculiar treasure and sole 
counsellor ; and, since she had nothing else to 
choose them by, the books had to be chosen by 
3 



26 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

their names only. And now let not the incautious 
mother, or the adventurous daughter, take courage, 
and assume that the result of unrestricted reading 
may not be so bad as people think, and the trash 
of a circulating library not so certainly destruc- 
tive of moral and intellectual taste. What parent- 
al prudence did not, a beneficent Providence did 
— partly by the effect of their example, and partly 
by the natural character of her own mind. Little 
Caroline never saw any body read pernicious books 
— she never heard of pernicious books— or heard 
anything about what they contained. She never 
saw a novel in her father's house, and never spoke 
with any one who had read them. The exact mo- 
rality of her father's house was such, that she 
does not remember to have ever heard a free ex- 
pression, or an indelicate allusion, or a profane or 
immoral word in jest or earnest. The very name 
of vices and follies, was strange to her ear — and 
all the knowledge of the living world, its passions 
and pursuits, was no more than she learned from 
those parts of the newspapers which her father de- 
sired to hear, and which were generally read aloud 
— consisting chiefly of the parliamentary debates, 
the court circular, robberies, accidents, and most 
especially theatrical reports, which in a newspaper 
are innocent enough. If the common talk of young 
ladies about love and marriage, &c, went on, as 
it must be supposed it did, among her grown-up or 
growing up sisters: it never transpired in the 
family circle, or within hearing of the little ones. 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 27 

How much, in the absence of all other moral in- 
struction and restraint, Caroline owed to this ig- 
norance and simplicity concerning evil, will ap- 
pear as her tale progresses ; but the first effect was 
that she had neither curiosity nor understanding 
for any sort of reading that might have been in- 
jurious. With all her passion for poetry, she never 
read any but Milton, Cowper, Virgil, Pope, Young, 
Dryden, and Thompson — she does not think even 
she had any taste for Shakspeare before she was 
fourteen — and of those authors, it was the graver, 
not the lighter pieces she enjoyed ; — Milton's Para- 
dise Lost, and Pope's Homer's Iliad, being cer- 
tainly the earliest, and most habitual diet of her 
poetical appetite — as Young's Night Thoughts and 
Cowper's Task, were a little later, and she recol- 
lects w 7 hat she cannot well account for, and what 
is certainly not the case now, and very unusual 
to a child, she had a decided preference for epic 
poetry, and for blank verse. As far as she re- 
members, her prose reading was quite as good. 
The heroes of Lacedemon, were the idols of her 
imagination, second only to Achilles and Agamem- 
non — Plutarch's Lives were her exhaustless feast 
— the pious heroism of Gustavus Adolphus — the 
adventurous spirit of Charles of Sweden — the 
courtly Francis, and the sagacious Charles — what- 
ever was great, or noble, or bold, or proud, was 
the food of her reflective, as well as inquisitive, 
faculties — divided only with her love of whatever 
was philosophical ; — she believes, that before she 



28 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

was fourteen, she had read, and enjoyed, and re- 
flected upon all the standard classical works, in 
translations of course, and a great many books 
upon natural philosophy and science, such as were 
then most in circulation. We say reflected upon, 
because all reading was to her, through all her life, 
only so much material for thinking and feeling. 
She never took delight in mere facts, nor turned 
over pages for mere information — nor could well 
retain these when she had got them ; whence it 
probably resulted, that with all her knowledge, she 
never was an accurate scholar, her memory had 
no verbal stores, she had nobody's thoughts in her 
head but her own, could never quote from any 
other writer, or bring what she had read to bear 
upon her arguments. It is commonly said in youth 
that it is of no use to read more than you can re- 
member. This is not true. The use of reading 
is to form the mind, to enlighten the understand- 
ing, to direct the opinions, and provide the mate- 
rials for thinking and for judging. It is the mental 
aliment, which it is no more indispensable to re- 
member in detail, than the things we eat and 
drink, and grow up upon bodily. No doubt, the 
addition of a strong, verbal, and eventual memory, 
with the higher intellectual powers, is a very great 
advantage in writing and conversation, of which 
Caroline has always felt the want. 

In nothing has C.'s ultimate character been so 
true to the first impulses of nature, as in her plea- 
sures. There is every appearance that the first- 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 29 

born will be the survivor. Little C. never liked the 
dull, the artificial play-thing, nor the game of play, 
unless it were one of skill and exercise, such as 
throwing the ball, and skipping the rope, &c. Her 
earliest remembered pleasure, was the first-blown 
flower of the spring, or the new-born lamb in her 
father's meadow; she knows distinctly, — and ne- 
ver returns to her native place without a vivid re- 
currence of the impression, — where she used to go 
with her nurse, to see if the wild snow-drop was 
budding, to gather the first primroses, to hunt the 
sweet violets from among the nettles where they 
were yearly to be found. The long romantic walk, 
the nutting, and the blackberrying, were the great 
occurrences; the hay-field, the barn-floor, the sheep- 
cote, the many hours of the day she spent with her 
father upon the farm, listening to the detail of the 
bailiff, watching the plough, and the various ope- 
rations of the field, are recollections of such ex- 
quisite pleasure, as never fail to return upon her 
memory and her feelings, whenever she sees any- 
thing of farming.operations; she doubts if she ever 
sees a cart, or so much as hears a wagoner's whip, 
without the stirring of some vague reminiscences 
of bygone pleasure — pleasure as regards the farm, 
w 7 hich never happened, in all the varieties of her 
subsequent life, to be renewed ; yet she longs for 
it, even now that the garden feeds the still prevail- 
ing passion, but never bears a snow-drop so white, 
nor a violet so sweet, nor a primrose so smooth, 
and round, and pure, as those that grew for her 
3* 



30 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

without her care. If any one who loves her should 
like a proof of this, perhaps they will find them 
growing still in the same place, upon the farm of 
Hangershall, hard by the clear rivulet that divides 
Kent from Sussex, under shelter of the high rocks. 
This, amid the beautiful scenery of Tunbridge 
Wells, it will be judged, was no bad training for a 
poet; and whatever she may, or may not owe to 
it, in the culture of the imagination, she no doubt 
owes to it her escape from one of the dire penalties 
of authorship and reading — the miseries of dys- 
pepsia, and hypochondriasis. Born of very hand- 
some and healthful parents, and leading through all 
her first years the most healthful life possible, her 
constitution outbore the long intermediate pressure; 
and she is, when this is written, a remarkable in- 
stance of bodily activity and animal spirits, not 
worn and injured by mental toil and suffering — 
long and weary as they were. 

It has been remarked that example and igno- 
rance of evil were the principal moral restraints. 
Intellect itself, if not perverted, is so ; and the ha- 
bit of reflection is so. But all that comes of these 
is the morality of this world — the morality of self- 
interest and self-respect. 

Caroline never learned to fear sin, as sin, — least 
of all as measured against the law of God. Her 
first notions of right and wrong were such as she 
gathered from her reading; a purely heathen code, 
in which heroism and high-mindedness stood as the 
first of virtues, weakness and pusillanimity as the 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 3 j 

worst of vices. To be faultless, to be perfect, was 
her earlv and lon2;-cor)tinued desire and determi- 
nation, and much of the suffering of the first part of 
her life, arose from her conscious ill-success in the 
government of herself. No one ever told her 
where she might have help, or why she could not 
be perfect. The only thing, of which she never 
thought, for which she never asked, never felt, 
never cared, was religion. True, it was never 
brought under her observation ; but that was true 
of many other things about which her curiosity 
and consideration were insatiable. The religion of 
her father's house will seem almost a caricature in 
these bestirring days; but it was common enough 
in the high church then. Caroline does not remem- 
ber an individual in the family ever omitting to go 
to church tw T ice on the Sunday, except from illness ; 
it would have been thought absolutely wicked ; 
neither does she remember any instance of the 
Sabbath being profaned by week-day occupations 
and pleasures; certainly she never heard in jest 
or earnest the Holy Name profaned, or His word 
and power disputed, or irreverently treated. But 
except on Sunday, the Bible never left its shelf, and 
religion was not any body's business in the week. 
During the Sunday, religious books, if they may 
be so called, came forth out of their hiding-places, 
and all others disappeared. The children learned 
and repeated the collects, and the church cate- 
chism, the only lesson which to Caroline appeared 
a hardship, and with good reason, for no one ever 



32 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

told her what it meant, and how she was interested 
in it. The catechism is a most beautiful compen- 
dium of the Christian faith, such as the most ad- 
vanced Christian studies with satisfaction, and 
. finds no better mode of expressing his own belief. 
But I have always been of opinion that it is unfit 
for children, and not meant for children; it is, ge- 
nerally speaking, not true of children into whose 
mouth it is put, as a confession of faith, of which 
they understand and believe not a syllable. On 
my own judgment I would never teach it to any, 
till they came of age to answer for themselves ; 
and I would remark on this, that it is our church's 
direction to the baptismal sponsors, that the child 
be taught the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and the 
Ten Commandments. Is not this because it is all 
of the catechism that was considered proper for 
childhood ? This I think, of the best instructed 
child; to one not instructed, it was a mass of un- 
meaning w r ords that she learned with difficulty and 
disgust, and cared as little as she knew, what was 
meant by it. No nurse nor mother ever talked to 
her of Jesus' love, nor told her stories of his suffer- 
ings; nor ever warned her of God's displeasure. 
Her infant mind was never stored with sacred 
words — nor her memory exercised w T ith holy writ. 
When she listens now to the exercises of the In- 
fant or the Sunday-school, deeply can she estimate, 
while they cannot, the value of the instructions 
thus received, in preparation for the day of grace. 
Her reading of the Scripture was confined to a 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 33 

chapter read every Sunday evening by each of 
the four younger children to their parents and the 
family assembled ; but as they always chose what 
they would read, it seldom varied beyond the sto- 
ries of the Old Testament. David and Goliah, 
Joseph and his brethren, Daniel in the lion's den, 
&c. &c. — never applied, never remarked upon by 
any one ; this was followed by one of Blair's, or 
other similar lectures, read aloud by some one of 
the elders, and then religion was dismissed till the 
next Sabbath. The only unseen world that occu- 
pied little Caroline's attention was that of the clas- 
sic poets. In this she was interested enough, and 
had all names and attributes of heathen deities to 
adorn her childish verse, and delighted in nothing 
more than a visit to Olympus or to Hades, with 
her favourite poets. It was a little after her child- 
hood, perhaps at about twelve or fourteen years of 
age, when her brother, returning from Oxford, 
tried to introduce rather more serious reading; 
Bishop Porteus' Lectures, then just delivered, and 
Mrs. EL More's Works, then become fashionable; 
but the former was declared by her parents to be 
methodistical, and for the latter, Caroline at least 
had an avowed distaste, except the Sacred Dra- 
mas, which she got by heart. It is a remarkable 
circumstance, strongly imprinted on her memory, 
that the first desire she conceived for the pleasures 
of fashionable life, was in reading Mrs. H. More's 
strictures against them. To their alleged sin and 



34 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

danger, she was indifferent ; to their zest she was 
then first awakened. 

Living so much excluded from society, at a pe- 
riod when evangelical religion was little stirring in 
the church, (to have entered a dissenting chapel 
would have been esteemed by her father a mortal 
sin,) it is not surprising that vital religion should 
never have come under Caroline's observation; still 
it seems remarkable, that to a mind so reflective and 
inquiring, the things of another world should not 
have become a subject at least of curiosity. It was 
during this period, as she thinks, that Young's 
Night Thoughts became her supreme delight. Hav- 
ing possessed herself of an old copy, she was in 
the habit of rising very early, and retiring into a 
little copse-wood not far from the house, where, 
seated upon a stile, the nightingales singing over 
her head, and the beautiful grey snake slumbering 
amid the wild flowers at her feet, she passed deli- 
cious hours in committing to memory that roman- 
tic and deep-feeling poetry — than which few things 
could be more unwholesome for such a mind as 
hers, predisposed to exaggeration in the good and 
ill of all things, and prepared to take the poetry of 
life, of time and of eternity, in the stead of its reali- 
ties. To the continual study of it at that important 
age, she has been used to attribute mnch influence 
on her early character; if it did not create, it cer- 
tainly encouraged a contempt for the usages of the 
world, and a tone of independent mental existence, 
a lowered opinion of human nature, and quickened 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 



35 



sensibility to its follies, viewed as follies, not as sins; 
weighed by reason and philosophy, not by the Word 
of God. A melancholy presage of that life of which 
she knew nothing, its injuries, its unkindness, and its 
injustice, amounting to a desire to escape from it 
by a death, of which she knew far less, is an im- 
pression well remembered in her childhood, pro- 
duced by the influence of poetry in general, but of 
this poem most particularly, upon the morbid sen- 
sibilities of her nature. Fresh with the breezes of 
the morning, little Caroline was used to return to 
the family breakfast-table, moody and whimsical 
and abstracted, but full of the delights of nature and 
of poetry, in which nobody crossed her humour, 
or questioned the disposal of her time ; this, with 
the exception of about four hours a day, called 
school-hours, was left to her entire disposal, at an 
age when most children do every thing by rule and 
dictation. From what has been stated, it cannot 
be said that she was a good-tempered child ; vio- 
lent and wilful she thinks she must have been, or 
would have been, had she been contradicted and 
restrained, but this she rarely was by anybody, and 
when left to herself she was to the greatest degree 
a good-natured child, and as such, a favourite with 
her elder sisters. If anybody wanted a thing, Car- 
ry would fetch it, — if any little service w T as to be 
done, Carry would do it — if any secret to be trans- 
acted, Carry could be trusted — anybody might use 
Carry's books or papers, or thread or pencils, she 
would never be angry ; there w T as nothing that she 



35 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

would not do to assist or oblige any one, for she 
was as quick with her fingers as with her brain: 
" Let Carry try," is a sentence well remembered, 
when any little difficulty occurred among the sis- 
ters. She cannot well remember, that any indivi- 
dual of her large family, living as they did invariably 
together, ever treated her unkindly, or otherwise 
than with the greatest indulgence and affection. A 
happier childhood, perhaps, has seldom been past. 
Out of hearing, almost, of the world's cares, except 
the divisions of Whig and Tory, Opposition and 
Ministerial, Pitt and Fox, about which her father 
troubled himself by his fireside, and talked among 
his children, with as much interest as if he had 
been a placeman, with all the stirring interests of 
the long war, the taxes, the invasion, &c. &c. — 
provided abundantly for anything she ever heard 
or saw, or thought of, with the comforts of life, free 
in the exercise of her tastes and powers, in the ab- 
sence of all temptation to misuse them — leading in 
the simplicity of country hours and habits, the 
most healthful existence possible — occupied in all 
natural pleasures and rational pursuits, there seems 
not the shadow of a cloud upon the first division of 
her history, but that which she probably brought 
with her into the world, and must take with her 
out of it — the morbid sensibilities of her own na- 
ture — the capacity to .suffer without a proportion- 
ate cause — the heart's indwelling and inburied 
torment. 

She closes at fourteen the first division of these 



BIRTH AND CHILDHOOD. 37 

memoranda, because she was about that age when 
her father died; the first great change in her 
changeful life; for though many years elapsed be- 
fore there was any alteration in the external mode 
of life, it was the source and cause of much with- 
in herself, and ultimately of all relating to her. It 
must not be omitted, that before this period, little 
Caroline had actually attained the inborn desire of 
her heart, — to be an author. The fond father, 
whose pride and pleasure in her talents were very 
great, had pleased himself with printing and pub- 
lishing, at the Tunbridge Wells Library, a few hun- 
dred copies of a History of England in verse, which 
little Caroline had composed for the use of her own 
school-room. They sold immediately, and were 
much thought of as the production of so young a 
person; the printers, and no doubt the author, 
much desired a second edition, but the prudent pa- 
rent, who perhaps never seriously looked forward 
to his little girl's literary character, w T as dissuaded 
from permitting it, as likely to spoil her with pub- 
lic approbation. If he anticipated, as she surely 
believes he did not, that his children would depend 
on their own talents for the means of existence, 
this was a great mistake. If he thought to leave 
them in the comfortable obscurity of domestic life, 
perhaps it was judicious* At all events it was the 
commencement of the prolonged course of op- 
position which circumstances seemed to make to 
the dictates of nature, by which her early pro- 
pensities and powers were baffled and suppressed; 
4 



38 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

— in mere human language, we should say, by 
which her destiny was crossed. Is it not rather 
good to say, by w T hich a merciful God kept in re- 
serve for his own use, powers which might else 
have been expended in opposition to his truth. 
Had Caroline Fry been an author earlier, what 
would she have written ? Blessed be God, and to 
Him alone the praise, that she never has written 
anything of which the memory is painful to her 
best and holiest moments. 

If any manuscript record of this period remain, 
it must be with Caroline's own family ; she knew 
no one else. Most likely there are not any in ex- 
istence — she believes they were not worth pre- 
serving, even as the productions of a child. 

In reading the memoirs of other female writers, 
it has often come into her mind to think what the 
result' would have been to her, had her powers 
been stimulated, as most others have been, by early 
opportunities and associations. . . Greater she 
would perhaps have been, but far less happy, there 
is little doubt. 



EARLY YOUTH. 39 



CHAPTER II. 



EARLY YOUTH. 



Caroline was about fifteen when her father died. 
Everything for a time went on the same — the same 
house, the same habits, the same establishment, but 
all was materially changed to Caroline. She 
passed from a child to a woman. The only con- 
trol or influence she had ever known was with- 
drawn ; nobody any more attempted to guide or 
to control her; the form of education was relin- 
quished : her young sister and companion being 
sent from home, Caroline became the companion 
of the older ones ; and was solely committed to 
her own discretion and responsibility, treated in 
every respect as a grown-up girl. For the first 
year or two, as might be expected, the little poet 
became more moody and whimsical than ever. 
She passed the greater part of the day alone in her 
chamber scribbling at an old escrutoire of which 
she had got possession, or sitting for hours together 
at a high window-place with her feet upon a table, 
looking at the moon, and making verses ; but her 



40 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

compositions at this time were shown to nobody; 
her father who liked them was no more, and none 
else cared to encourage her propensity. She wrote 
none the less, but kept them to herself. She chose 
to walk out alone at dusk, or sit on the common with 
her book. The most dangerous susceptibilities of her 
nature, its most romantic and exaggerated feeling 
as well as its selfish and self-indulgent propensities, 
were in danger of being thus fostered and encour- 
aged to an unlimited degree ; but nature came in 
to its own rescue — the growing feeling of woman- 
hood, and the whimsies of the child, spoiled the 
poet, and went nigh to defeat the designs of nature 
and change the destiny entirely. May we not 
rather say, Almighty power and mercy interposed, 
to effect its own distant ends. Is it not as if God 
had said, " Go your way into the world, try its 
pleasures, exhaust its interests, enjoy its vanities 
and smiles, spend there your youth and health, 
and spirits, but this talent is mine, it must not be 
with you. I take it and keep it, that when here- 
after I require it, it may be found unused and un- 
degraded by a baser service V 9 Blessed be his 
name, it was so. He took from her senseless and 
unguided hand the dangerous weapon with which 
she might have injured and wounded many, and 
perhaps have slain herself, and kept it bright and 
unspotted from the world, till the day when he 
gave it back to be used under the guidance of his 
Spirit and his word. She left it, and neglected it, 
and forgot it ; from about sixteen years of age or 



EARLY YOUTH. 



41 



a little sooner, she left her books and her poetry, 
neglected her talents and forgot the inborn desire 
of her heart, to occupy herself with the common- 
est interests of common life. It is a curious chasm 
and a curious fact, that this pleasure, this pride, 
this ambition and determination of her childhood, 
was as much gone as if it never had existed, and 
returned only by compulsion of her fortunes, to the 
involuntary resumption and exercise of her mental 
powers. While she looks back with shame and 
wonder on those vain and wasted years, let her 
ever give glory to the Divine purpose therein, for 
without them, she had never known the secrets of 
the kingdom of the prince of this world, whose 
machinations it has since been her business to ex- 
pose and combat. It was in keeping w T ith the 
whole current of circumstances, by which she was 
fitted for God's purposes, and unfitted for her own, 
rendered more capable of being useful to the 
world in her writings, and more incapable of suc- 
ceeding in it to her own temporal advantage and 
distinction. 

The death of the father had in a measure broken 
up the extreme seclusion of the family. The young 
ladies made a few more acquaintances: one was to 
be married ; other young men w 7 ere introduced, 
and came to the house, or joined in their walks; 
the merry, chattering, bright-eyed child was very 
distinguishable at the bottom of the long family 
supper-table. The kind elder sisters, unlike it 
must be confessed to many sisters of large families 

4* 



42 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

I have seen, had no disposition to extinguish her, 
and she who by birthright had been the admitted 
genius, was now to be by consent, its wit, its life, 
its plaything, its spoiled child from first to last. 
Caroline's natural mirth and gaiety, and disposition 
to raillery, if not to satire, was now given way to, 
and excited to the utmost possible extent, for the 
amusement of her mother and sisters, or anybody 
that happened to come in the way ; in the retro- 
spect it seems to her that she was wild with enjoy- 
ment and excess of animal spirits, and happy beyond 
all expression in the love of those around her, and 
the every-day amusements of domestic country life. 
The walks, the woods, the garden, they had not lost 
their zest, whatever became of the books and of the 
poetry. Her solitary rambles had become inconve- 
nient; subjectingher,asshebegan to look more a wo- 
man, to some annoyance in a public watering-place. 
They were given up, as were all her solitary 
amusements ; and with that strong, but capricious 
attachment which characterized her in after life, 
she attached her self to two of her sisters in par- 
ticular, the next older than herself, and became 
their constant companion. 

Of the period between fourteen and seventeen, 
Caroline remembers nothing but happiness, free- 
dom, mirth, hilarity, good humour with every one, 
and delight in every thing. She loved her sisters, 
she fell in with their occupations and pursuits, 
walking, drawing, gardening, work, the latter most 
particularly filled up her busy days ; and she thinks 



EARLY YOUTH. 



43 



she read very little. In the capacity of woman, 
the care of her own wardrobe fell into her own 
hands; and as was the custom of the family, she 
had to make all her own clothes, even her own 
dresses, for no such thing as a dressmaker or a 
sempstress had ever been heard of in the house. 
The vivacious eagerness that made Caroline out- 
strip others in their learning, bore equally upon 
every thing, and whatever was to be done, she 
must do most and best ; even to the platting of a 
straw bonnet, — she must do two in the year when 
others were content with one ; and she liked all, 
she liked every thing, but most she liked the long, 
fatiguing days, when the sisters used to repair to 
some distant corn-fields to gather straw for their 
platting, furnished with a dinner of cold meat, and 
seated all day on the sod or barn-floor; and if she 
no longer made poetry, she felt it in the deepest 
recesses of her soul. She had learned to like the 
ball-room, the half-romping excitement of the En- 
glish country dance, which was all she knew of 
dancing, for the same reason and no other, that 
she liked playing at ball or skipping a rope, and 
talking and laughing, it was yet no more to her, 
but nothing gave half the delight in these days, 
which the corn-fields at harvest time afforded, a 
delight as vivid in her memory as if she had felt 
it yesterday. She may not perfectly recal, but she 
thinks this period was free from those returns of 
violent affection and depression, of which she has 
previously said so much. No one crossed her plea- 



44 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

sure, no one contradicted or found fault with her, 
no one was unkind or unjust to her; perhaps her 
feelings as well as her intellect, had a slumbering 
time, to gather strength, for harm as well as good, 
for good as w r ell as harm.* When Caroline was 
nearly seventeen, this happy family for the first 
time prepared to separate. With the view of pro- 
viding for themselves, if it should become necessa- 
ry, it was advised that those who were young 
enough should go to a first-rate London school. 
The year and quarter that Caroline remained at 

, left no impression but what is painful. There 

were good masters, and Caroline was well taught 
in music, drawing, &c, but time ends all things; 
the anxiously-counted days and weeks escaped, 
and Caroline returned to her happy home, some- 
where about eighteen years of age, w T ith some in- 
creased knowledge of the world, and a stirring 
desire to be better acquainted with it. 

We have said, that she returned to her own 
happy home, but much was changed, nothing so 
changed as she was; things went on as usual, yet 
all seemed changed and changing, herself the most 
of all. Perhaps the young blood no longer flowed 
so healthfully in the veins. She remembers no 
more exuberance of spirits — no more gaiety of 
heart. She remembers no more harvest-fields, or 

* If this is a fact — it might appear physiologically to con- 
nect those morbid sensibilities with the actual exercise of the 
mental powers — suspended by their disuse. 



EARLY YOUTH. 45 

gardens, or country rambles. She had seen Lon- 
don, she had heard of London life. She had mix- 
ed with girls of other habits, and of other tastes; 
the yearnings of vanity and ambition were in her 
heart; she wanted to see life, to be— to do — though 
she knew not what. She remembers walking after 
dark, up and down a paved court in front of her 
mother's house, whence she could see the carri- 
ages set down at the door of the assembly-room ; 
and wishing she might partake of the gaiety, the 
dress, the splendid equipage, and the expected plea- 
sure. She remembers walking on the high Lon- 
don-road, and as the travelling carriages went by, 
wishing she too might go — somewhere, anywhere. 
The house, the country, had gone after the poetry 
and the books — all had lost their charm. Altered, 
indeed, is now to be our story — the artless, the 
healthful, the peaceful youth was ended. She w 7 as 
to have her way — and more than twenty years 
were to be given her to try that world she longed 
for, before she found again a happy peaceful home. 
Most wonderful art thou, O God, in all thy ways; 
most good, most wise, most merciful ! 



46 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



CHAPTER III. 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 



Caroline was to have her way. " Ephraim is 
wedded to idols, let him alone." It is a sad, sad 
chapter we have now to write. Before we enter 
upon it, something should be said of the state of 
her mind, in respect to religion, during the last- 
named period of her life. From the time of her 
father's death, during her school-days, and the 
short time she remained at home afterwards, Caro- 
line used to go frequently, for the sake of going 
somewhere, and doing something, and at the insti- 
gation of an elder sister, already a decided child 
of God, to various places to hear the gospel preach- 
ed, far more interesting of course to her intellect 
and feeling, than the ten minutes' essay to which 
she had been accustomed. She does not very well 
remember whom she heard, except an impression 
that Mr. Foster, of Long Acre, gave her the most 
satisfaction, of the few she heard in London, when 
taken out on a Sunday by her sister from school. 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 47 

At Tunbridge Wells, it was in Lady Huntingdon's 
chapel she heard the gospel. She liked to hear a 
good sermon better than a bad one; and the better 
it was, the better she liked it; for the same reason 
that she liked a good poem better than a bad one; 
and she acquired from them a full and correct 
knowledge of the evangelical doctrines of the gos- 
pel, and the variations under which they were ex- 
hibited by different preachers ; she may be said 
thenceforward to have understood the gospel as 
far as it could be learned of man, without the help 
of the Spirit or the Word. She never read — she 
cannot remember whether she ever prayed, or 
whether she ever felt or cared about religion. It 
is scarcely to be supposed there was not some per- 
sonal interest excited at the time in the divine 
truths set before her, but she cannot recal it; they 
took no effect at the time, and were soon after- 
wards revolting to her. 

Caroline was eighteen years of age, when the 
yearning desire of her heart to mix with the world, 
and taste the pleasures of a London life was gratified 
by a proposal from a near relation then practising as 
a solicitor in London, and residing with his wife and 
family in Bloomsbury, that she should live with them. 
Seldom has the young heart's satisfaction been more 
full; not one regret for the home she was leaving, or 
the sisters whom alone she loved in all the world, 
was mixed with her delight. To be the compan- 
ion of . . . and assist her household and maternal 
cares, was the ostensible object of her removal to 



48 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Bloomsbury ; the real intention could be no other 
than her advantage, — to introduce her to society, 
and afford her an opportunity of making such a 
settlement as he anticipated. The society was of 
that class in which there is perhaps the greatest 
degree of enjoyment ; the refinements of polite life, 
without the restraints of rank; gaiety without dis- 
sipation ; enough to keep up the taste for amuse- 
ment, but not enough to sate it. The mode of 
living was the same: a small genteel establish- 
ment, everything elegant, but nothing luxurious or 
extravagant; no sense of or appearance of wealth; 
economy without stint — hospitality without dis- 
play* This was what Caroline saw and shared — 
her simplicity and ignorance veiled the rest. She 
was grateful and contented. She loved . . . which 
w T as natural; most people loved him and he was 
alwavs kind; she admired him, so did the society 
in whic^i he lived ; his manners were polished, and 
his wit wns brilliant. It would seem as if her 
mental powers had actually been extinct during 
these years, in which her intellect was prostrated 
to folly, ignorance, and misjudgment; was con- 
tented with its humiliation, and had no misgiving 
of the degradatio . In her father's house she had 
never heard a profane or licentious expression; 
nothing came amiss here to point a jest, provided 
it was not coarse or low. Caroline does not re- 
member to have been shocked. In her father's 
house, nobody ever thought cf absenting them- 
selves from Church, or profaning lie Sabbath-day; 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 49 

here, though the latter was no otherwise done than 
by driving in the Park and paving visits, the for- 
mer seemed scarcely to come into anybody's head; 
no mention w 7 as ever made of going to church; a 
few times a year it might happen, the master of 
the house being absent, that Caroline and her 
friend, wanting something to do, took into their 
heads the extraordinary fancy of going to some 
church on the Sunday morning, for no purpose 
and intent certainly, but to pass the time. It was 
in one such freak, Caroline heard for the only 
time, that eminent man of God, Mr. Cecil, then, 
probably, in his prime, at St. John's; and absolute 
offence and disgust are all her remembrances of 
it. Whether this neglect was then fashionable or 
not, Caroline does not know, but it was so to a 
much greater extent than it is now. That the 
habits and influence of a w T hole life should have 
left on Caroline's mind no desire for external ob- 
servances, not the least compunction in the total 
neglect of them, does seem extraordinary, and is 
an impressive lesson. She had been taken to 
church in her childhood, because it was the cus- 
tom, and because it was right; to her, at least, no 
other motive had been supplied ; she ceased to go, 
without a thought about the matter, as soon as she 
found herself where it was not the custom. It was 
no doubt at this time, although she cannot recal 
anything about it, that Caroline ceased to perform 
the ceremony of prayer in her chamber night and 
morning, (she has no reason to believe that she 
5 



50 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

had ever really prayed ;) from that time never 
more to bend her knee in private, or her heart 
anywhere before the God of heaven, until of his 
sovereign grace and mercy she was born anew. 
Things could not rest there, and they did not; she 
was no thoughtless, careless being, to remain in- 
different: — but of this hereafter. There was one 
dogma received without disputation in this new 
abode of the sometime poet, the precocious book- 
worm — the letter-devoted child ; namely, that it 
was not genteel for ladies to know anything, ex- 
cept to dress and dance, and behave themselves in 
company ; and manage their families, and ply 
their needles out of it. Never, certainly, was 
doctrine more practically exhibited, than this; for 
there was not, during the first year of Caroline's 
residence there, a single book in the house, except 
a stray volume of Cowper's Poems, for reading 
on Sunday, when the needle-work was suspended. 
Of course the credulous disciple took care never 
to remember that she had read so much beyond 
her years atone time: this had been long relin- 
quished ; she was a willing, well-convinced believer 
in this new code of politeness. Whether anything 
occurred, to shake the decision against books in 
general, we cannot say; but, all at once, an ele- 
gant book-case made its appearance in the back 
drawing-room, for the reception of a lot of hand- 
somely-bound books, bought at a sale, without the 
smallest respect to what they might be about. It 
did not signify, it was Caroline's business to keep 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 5 J 

them properly arranged, according to their re- 
spective heights and sizes; and no further notice 
was taken of them. In fact, Caroline strongly felt 
the obligation she considered herself under, for 
her residence in * * #, s house ; she was led to be- 
lieve that she was totally dependent, and that 
every thing she received was his. She was very 
grateful and very happy, even in the enjoyment of 
much that she had not been used to in her early 
home; and she must have been deprived of more 
in the declining circumstances of her family : in 
short, ^he was told and thought she was wholly 
dependent. Her great desire was to be useful, in 
return to # * *'s family ; there were five or six 
young children, and the mother delicate. Caro- 
line's whole time, therefore, was occupied with the 
sublime arts of millinery and dress-making, or 
dress-trimming ; for it w 7 as mostly the ornamental 
parts that fell to her share; it maybe inferred, 
that in the suspension of every other exercise of 
her talents, this w r as a real pleasure to her — and 
she thinks it was. The same faculty that draws a 
flower, makes a cap, and puts a ready-made 
flower elegantly into it ; the same taste that is 
brought to bear in the composition of a poem, will 
please itself in the arrangement of a dress, and 
Caroline's talents were brought to bear ; with the 
pleasure of pleasing, extremely great to her at all 
times, and pleasure no doubt in the exercise of her 
skill, she had also the necessity of her own vanity 
to be supplied — though to do her justice, it was 



52 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

little enough ; she never cared for dress, but dress- 
ed she must be, as became her position ; and the 
bargain usually was, that if Caroline would make 
and ornament # * * *'s ball-dress, she should have 
one like it for herself. This, with making a fac 
simile of every beautiful and newly finished cap 
that w 7 as caught sight of at a party, or even in a 
shop window, and cutting out for the sempstress 
all the children's clothes, and making all her own, 
where every thing was to be of fashionable and 
economical admixture, was no sinecure; and from 
an early hour in the morning, to a late hour at 
night, when not engaged^ with company abroad or 
at home, Caroline laboured unremittingly in her 
vocation, and would have thought half an hour 
abstracted for a book, a real dereliction of her 
duties. There was an exception, however, and 
most curiously it served to supply what in her 
previous reading had been totally excluded ; and 
made her widely acquainted with a class of litera- 
ture of which she might else have remained igno- 
rant ; the indiscriminate trash of the circulating 
library, and which at that time, circumstances 
gave the opportunity of perusing. 

Was Caroline injured by it? I think she was 
not; perhaps for the destiny for which Almighty 
love and mercy was preparing her, she was con- 
siderably benefited. The only case in which 
novel-reading can be harmless, is, where the mind 
has been previously solidified by much reading and 
reflection, so as to be capable of no impression 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 53 

from them beyond the surface, which may then 
receive a polish from works of taste and fancy, 
without the mind being vitiated or enervated by 
them. That the mind of a young female should 
receive no injury of another sort, to taint its deli- 
cacy and purity of thought and feeling, requires a 
case of great peculiarity, such as never may be 
presumed upon at nineteen ; a childlike insensi- 
bility. Yet so it was, and Caroline gathered in 
this manner an insight into humanity, into life and 
manners, such as no previous opportunity had 
afforded her the means of observing, without any 
injury to her mind and morals, in its measure 
counteracting the absolute seclusion in which she 
had grown up, and amalgamating, very harmlessly 
and beneficially, with the very grave and solid 
reading of her early years. Thus out of every 
evil, Almighty power wrought something towards 
his purposes of good. For any purposes but those 
of his great mercy, never was unhappy child more 
ill-placed or ill-conditioned, or so ill-suited to her 
position. Her natural capabilities, suppressed and 
forgotten by herself, her natural defects brought 
into distressing observation to others, and con- 
scious embarrassment to herself. If any one of 
her society then, should read these memoirs, (it is 
not likely, for she was youngest among them,) 
they may remember the country girl, who blushed 
whenever she was spoken to, and blundered when- 
ever she spoke; who never opened her lips in pre- 
sence of , for fear of being laughed at or 

5* 



^4 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

reproved, who snuffed out the candles, and stirred 
the coals over the bar for the very fear of doing 
it; who laughed when she was flattered, and was 
rude when she was courted, whose very modesty 
made her stupid, and her artlessness ill-mannered ; 
all suppressed in her that was natural, all impossi- 
ble to her that was artificial, trying to be every 
thing but what she was, incapable of every thing 
she was desired to be, she grew daily more timid 
and consequently more reserved, more abashed 
and consequently more awkward. What Caro- 
line was at this time, or passed for mentally, we 
wish there was one left to tell, for it is her mind's 
history we alone desire to write, yet tell w r e can- 
not. If any one who knew her at that time, and 
lived even familiarly in company with her, took 
her to have any talent, understanding, or mental 
power and cultivation of any kind whatever, they 
knew her better than she knew herself; but we 
should be surprised to hear of it; she supposes she 
talked the nonsense she enacted for those three 
whole years of vanity and waste. The society 
she moved in was much of the kind which pre- 
vailed in that neighbourhood, but the rapid move- 
ment of her subsequent life has worn out every 
impression of the greater number of them, names, 
persons, characters and all, very few having 
crossed her later paths, or been anything to her, 
then or since, but the companions of her hours of 
amusement ; she cared nothing about them, and 
has known nothing about them since. If they 



EARLY WOMANHOOD, 55 

have heard of her, they must have thought it 
strange material for a blue-stocking and a metho- 
dist. But His ways are not as our ways, nor His 
thoughts as our thoughts. One person there was 
however, in the society of this period, who claims 
a particular mention, both for his own reputation, 
and the influence his society may have had upon 
the subject of this memoir. His acquaintance 
proved another ray of literature in the dark ages 
of this her unliterary life, which, like the novel- 
reading, served its purpose, for it made her fa- 
miliar with the transactions of the stage and its 
purveyors. Mr. C. was at this time above seventy 
years of age, and for the fineness of his person, 
the dignity and elegance of his manner, might 
have been monarch of the realm. It is possible 
that distance may have exaggerated the early 
impression, but it seemed to her she has never 
seen any one, whose whole person and manner 
were so courtly and high-bred, his tall upright 
person, his snow-white hair, and fine, benevolent, 
and yet impatient and irritable countenance, his 
easy and yet important air, of condescending con- 
sequence, his hat on one side of his fine and care- 
fully-dressed head, the one hand in his bosom, and 
the other in a sort of consequential swing at his side, 
is an impression still fresh, made permanent no 
doubt, by the absolute and unmixed pleasure the 
sight of it produced. Caroline had known him first 
at Tunbridge Wells, where her childish poetry used 
to be submitted to his admiration by her father; 



56 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY, 



but that was at a distance, now he was the fami- 
liar of . . . . 's house, where, living great part of 
the year at an hotel in London, he found it very- 
convenient to dine every day that he happened to 
have no engagement, where he was courted, hu- 
moured, almost idolized, and every thing that 
could be done to please him, was felt to be repaid 
by the mirth which his never-failing wit inspired. 
Wit that spared nothing human or divine, friends, 
life, morality, religion, nothing barred the jest; 
and they who laughed most heartily at the last 
joke, had reason to believe themselves the subject 
of the next, as soon as their backs were turned ; 
excess of compliment in their presence was some- 
times scarcely less a satire, though the high polish 
of the manner hid the fact. As was most natural, 
Caroline attached herself entirely to this fasci- 
nating old man. The first scholar — the first lite- 
rary man — the first courtly man she had ever had 
any intimacy with, and who, to all appearance, 
loved and admired her. Whether so or not, he 
loaded her with flattery and caresses, poured ever 
in her ear the praises of her person, repeated all 
he heard from others of her beauty, and frequent- 
ly remonstrated with her upon the insouciance 
with which she received the attentions of persons 
whom he wished her to attract; and it was finally 
decided by all about her that she had no heart, 
since nobody made any impression on it. It was 
a remarkable providence, in connection with her 
subsequent life, that she did not marry then, when 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 57 

she would as soon have accepted one as another, 
if externally agreeable and desirable.* If the in- 
sidious flattery of this dangerous old man, whom 
she admired, revered and loved, failed as it did, 
to make any impression on her delicacy, artless- 
ness, and purity of thought and feeling, there was 
that in which the influence of his corrupt com- 
panionship did not fail : she was too innocent for 
his immorality, she was just ready for his irreli- 
gion. Never perhaps at the early age of nineteen 
and twenty, in a heart of such simplicity and in- 
corruptness, and real ignorance of evil, was the 
enmity of the fallen nature so developed. We 
wish to call attention to it, and if we have been 
writing what seems useless detail, we have done 
so on purpose to give the full value to this particu- 
lar point. It is written that the natural heart is 
" enmity" against God. Who believes this as a 
universal truth? When vice has indurated the 
heart, when habit has vitiated and the world cor- 
rupted it, it may be so, but what virtuous, happy, 
young and unspoiled nature, ever thought of hatred 
towards the God that made us? Fearlessness, 

* There is surely one lesson deducible from this ; a virtu- 
ous and moral childhood was sufficient to secure the youth- 
ful mind from subsequent moral corruption — the formalities 
of religious propriety were no defence against the insinua- 
tions of infidelity and ungodliness — and why] the one was 
a reality, and the other a fiction — the habits were virtuous — 
they were not religious. The pure, clear mind of youth is 
rarely impressed with what is false and fictitious in itself. 



58 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

indifference, forgetfulness is natural, but not, sure- 
ly not, "enmity." Perhaps there are very few 
believers, looking back upon their days of gay and 
joyous godlessness, that can at all verify the Scrip- 
ture statement in themselves; how should they 
have hated the Being they never thought about 
and cared for, who never crossed their path with 
present ill, nor marred their pleasures with fear of 
retribution? But here, in the bosom of a simple 
girl, brought up in all the virtuous regularity and 
real religious observance of a secluded country 
life — a stranger to all that is morally evil, to a 
degree, that would not be credited if it were fully 
explained ; with a mind solidly instructed, and 
unused to any manner of evil influence by books 
or company, hitherto a stranger to sorrows, 
wrongs, and fears, that tend to harden the ungra- 
cious heart — in this unvitiated, unworldly bosom, 
was manifested at that early age, clear and strong 
to her memory as if it was of yesterday, a living, 
active hatred to the very name of God. She per- 
suaded herself there was no God, and thought she 
believed her own heart's lie ; but if she did, why 
did sh? ha'e him? — why did she feel such reno- 
vated delight when his name was the subject of 
the profane old poet's wit? "No God" was pro- 
bably with her, as it probably is with every other 
infidel — the determination of the heart, and not of 
the judgment. Thus while she thought herself 
above all religious doubts, she seized delightedly 
on every manifestation of infidelity in those around 
her, and laughed with the very utmost zest of gra- 



EARLY WOMANHOOD. 



59 



tified aversion, at every profanation of the holy 
name. There was no such thing as religious dis- 
cussion in society there, nobody talked about the 
Gospel but those that believed it; and no so-called 
religious people were met with in ordinary society. 
All mention of religion therefore was casual and 
jocular; ridicule and not argument; nobody rea- 
soned against the faith of Christ, every body des- 
pised it, the most knew nothing about it. Its pro- 
fessors were too little known or heard of generally, 
in such society, to be the objects of malignity. 
No, it was the master, not the servants then, on 
whom we spent our malice. Caroline recals one 
instance only, — it was just then that Mrs. H. More 
published her Coelebs. It never reached this book- 
less mansion, but it w r as talked of every where and 
almost every body read it. It was a very unlikely 
book to commend religion to any worldly mind; 
and the general decision was not altogether unjust, 
that no such man should be or would be endured 
in polite society,- the existence of a world in which 
he could be acceptable, was wholly unknown to 
the circle in which Caroline was then placed. 

The three years of vanity and folly and mental 
degradation had expired — the altered habits of her 
life had told on the body — habitual sickliness had 
taken place of the fresh bloom of health — the total 
want of air and exercise, inseparable from a Lon- 
don life, had unnerved the limbs and paled the 
cheeks, and damped the spirits — while nervous 
sensitiveness and irritability had increased in due 
proportion. 



00 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



CHAPTER IV. 



CONVERSION. 



Life is very uncertain, and intellect precarious. 
She who writes the beginning may never write 
the end. There is an event in every Christian's 
life more important to ourselves, and more redo- 
lent with the glory of God, than all events beside — 
" the new birth unto righteousness." Extraordi- 
nary as the manner of it was to her, and in its 
minute particulars known only to herself, ought 
she to postpone such a brief record of the circum- 
stances as will secure to the sovereignty of divine 
grace, the praise and glory of this undeserved in- 
terposition of redeeming love ? She will here 
narrate in brief, what may be amplified hereafter, 
should the writer live to complete her purpose. 

It will be seen, if these pages are ever filled — if 
not, it might never have been known, that at 
twenty to twenty-five years of age, Caroline was 
an atheist in heart — and only not quite one in 
understanding: she wished that there should be 
no God ; but because she was not quite satisfied 
that there was none, she hated the very utterance 
of his name, except when it was made a jest of. 



CONVERSION. Qi 

In what company that occurred may appear here- 
after. She was no longer ignorant, thoughtless, 
uninformed upon religion. She had read books, 
heard preachers, known saints — several of her 
own family were already under the influence of 
divine grace — she knew and hated all, and most 
intensely Him of whom is all. Years had passed 
since she deigned to bend the knee in prayer. 
His word she never read except upon compulsion 
— being required to do so with her pupils — the 
most disliked of all her daily tasks. She never 
went to church but for decency or necessity, and 
made it a rule and a deliberate effort not to listen 
or to join in the service; a systematic wickedness 
of which to this day she reaps the fruits, in the 
insurmountable difficulty she finds in keeping her 
attention to the service; now that with all her soul 
she loves it. The natural heart is said to be en- 
mity against God — no doubt it is so always — but 
there may be few cases in which the fact was so 
palpable and demonstrable — so known to the heart 
itself, so actually in conscious operation, within 
herself; for it is not probable that any one ever 
heard it from hor lips. Though talkative in trifles, 
she w r as exceedingly reserved as to her actual 
thoughts, and still more as to her feelings, and she 
had no bosom friend or kindred soul to tell them 
to. She never did tell them. To the few who 
would speak to her upon religion, she listened with 
silent amenity, or studied philosophical indiffer- 
ence: they had a right to their opinions — she 
6 



62 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

would not have disturbed them on any account, 
since they liked to think so, there was no harm 
in doing it. So well did she understand their 
feelings and opinions, and so indulgently consider 
them, that one time sleeping in the same room 
with a sick sister, whose mind was morbidly, 
but most spiritually and truly affected with* re- 
ligious melancholy, that sweet sister would some- 
times, in her sleepless nights, ask Caroline if she 
might repeat some hymns to her, and Caroline 
would kindly answer, "Do, my dear;" and when 
in return, Amelia asked Caroline to repeat 
hymns to her, she answered that she did not 
know any, but she would make some against 
another night, and she actually did make some, 
that not only satisfied her sister, but continue 
to this time as acceptable to believers as her 
more recent verses. It is a curious fact, that 
one of these hymns — beginning "For what shall 
I praise Thee,"* of which, when she wrote it, 
she did not believe a word, and had no intention 
but to suit the feelings of her sister, — was ten or 

* For what shall I praise Thee, my God and my king ; 
For what blessings the tribute of gratitude bring? 
Shall I praise Thee for plenty, for health and for ease, 
For the spring of delight, and the sunshine of peace? 

Shall I praise Thee for flowers that bloom'd on my breast ; 
For joys in perspective, or pleasures possessed? 
For the spirits that heightened my days of delight, 
And the slumber that sat on my pillow at night ! 



CONVERSION. 63 

twelve years afterwards shown her in manuscript 
as a great treasure, by a pious young lady who 
did not know whence it came, and hesitated to be- 
lieve her assertion that she had written it herself. 
This was an awful state, but it resulted, in the won- 
drous power of Him who makes even of evil the 
ministers of his good, that when faith was given, 
knowledge had not to be waited for; difference of 
doctrine and modifications of belief, and all scrip- 
tural or unscriptural arguments in support of each 
were perfectly familiar to her — like one acquaint- 
ed with the localities of a country, its languages 
and habits — when it was given her to enter by the 
gate, the way was plain before her. Indeed she 
had even so far considered the various views of 
Christianity, as to have concluded that, if there was 
anything in it at all, the Calvinists had the better 
of the controversy ; a conclusion to which she was 

For all this should I praise Thee, and only for this, 
I should leave half unsung, thy donation of bliss: 
I praise Thee for sorrow, for sickness, for care; 
For the thorns I have gather'd, the anguish T bear. 

For my nights of anxiety, watching and tears; 
A present of pain ; a perspective of fears ; 
I praise Thee, I bless Thee, my King and my God, 
For the good and the evil, Thy hand has bestow 'd. 

The flowers were sweet, but. their fragrance is flown, 
They left me no fruit, they are withered and gone ; 
The thorn it is poignant, but precious to me, 
As the message of mercy, that led me to Thee. 



(54 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

most decidedly brought by the reading of Dr. Tom- 
line's famous work, "The Refutation of Calvinism," 
one of the latest theological works she read be- 
fore her conversion.* How was a mind to be 
reached thus trenched and fortified? Opinion had 
no weight with her ; authorities had no influence. 
She had no dislike to hear the truth preached, or 
to the conversation of those who believed it, or to 
their persons. She would as soon have thought 
of disliking the Copernican system or its advocates, 
or any other scientific controversy. Her eldest 
brother was at this time a distinguished minister 
and writer in the Church of Christ — a man of ac- 
knowledged talent and learning. Caroline had 
heard him preach, and read his works, and held 
him in very high esteem and much affection ; but 
his religious opinions had not the smallest influ- 
ence. He considered Caroline as the most hope- 
less of his family, several of whom were beginning 
to be spiritually affected. He is said to have re- 
marked about this time : " There is the pride of in- 
tellect, that will never come down !" — humanly 
speaking, what was to reach it? It was always 
the judge, and not the pupil, of whatever authori- 
ties might be brought before it. It has been said 

* Calvinism would have been little proud of its proselyte — 
for whatever she had studied beside, she had not studied the 
Scriptures to discover who was right; but as an impartial 
and disinterested judge, exercised her own intellect and 
reason upon human statements. . 



CONVERSION. 



65 



she did not dislike to hear the truth, but there was 
that which she did dislike, which she hated, the 
Word that taught it. Neither the poetical beauties, 
nor the historic interest of the Bible could give it 
any charm. She could not endure it, she would 
not read it, and when read before her, she de- 
liberately determined not to listen, O, blessed and 
immutable Word ! now the joy of her heart, the 
comfort of her life, the exhaustless feast of her in- 
tellect and feelings ! Why was it that she could 
amuse herself with the same truths from the lips 
of man, and take no offence, and feel no hatred; 
but could not bear it there ? Surely because it 
has a potency w 7 hich is not any where beside — 
11 a savour of life unto life, or death unto death," 
which with all her philosophy and scepticism, she 
dared not meet. 

It is always worthy of remark, that the Om- 
niscient God works with, and not against, the 
natural disposition of the mind. This independent 
intellect was to be left unassailed, in the strong- 
holds of its pride, and Caroline w r as to be reached, 
where only she was vulnerable, through her affec- 
tions. At this momentous period Caroline was 
residing in the family of the Rev. T. M. — ., where 
everything was against the probability of her re- 
ceiving religious impressions, except the restless, 
unsatisfied, unhappy state of her own mind, dis- 
pleased with every thing around her and within 
her ; weary and disgusted with the present, and 
gloomy and hopeless of the future, without a single 

6* 



(JQ AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

sorrow but the absence of all joy, kindly entreat- 
ed, humoured, flattered and indulged by every 
one; her dependent situation notwithstanding, she 
was humorsome, rude, discontented and ungrate- 
ful. What wonder that she was so to those kind 
friendly creatures, who to the latest years of her 
intercourse or knowledge of them, continued to 
admire and love her, this conduct notwithstanding, 
— what wonder, when her heart was locked and 
seared against the love of Him, who at this very 
moment stood at the door and knocked, and was 
not asked to enter ! 

It has been said she never read — she never 
prayed — she never listened — wishing to be very 
exact in this particular, she will not omit, however, 
to mention what might be the first stirring of the 
Holy Spirit within her. She recollects a few 
nights when having laid down as usual without 
any attempt at prayer, in the intense feeling of her 
depression, as about to close her eyes, she mental- 
ly uttered something to this effect ; — "God, if thou 
art a God, I do not love thee, I do not want thee, 
I do not believe in any happiness in thee ; but, I 
am miserable as I am, give me what I do not seek, 
do not like, do not want — if thou canst make me 
happy; I am tired of this world, if there is any- 
thing better, give it me !" This, or nearly to this 
effect, felt between sleeping and waking, not upon 
her knees, but upon her bed, was all of prayer 
that preceded her conversion. Is it possible, that 
the Most Merciful, heart-searching God, could 



CONVERSION. £7 

have said of her at this moment, "Behold shepray- 
eth 1" She cannot tell. He heard an Ahab once : 
but Ahab wanted what he asked, she did not ; she 
was determine^ not to have it. She cannot tell, 
but this was the moment when the messenger of 
peace appeared. In the destitution of her affec- 
tions at this moment, Caroline fixed them with ve- 
hement partiality on the daughter of a clergyman 
in the adjoining parish. As all her feelings were 
passions, and passion is not very discriminating, 
she finds it hard to judge now, whether this new 
object of her enthusiasm was all she took her for ; 
subsequent events have inclined her to doubt it; 
but she was a lovely creature, of great beauty, 
highly cultivated mind, and most endearing man- 
ners ; a perfect contrast to Caroline in character, 
but alike in age, and though then living in her 
father's house, contemplating the necessity of enter- 
ing upon the same course of existence, being the 
eldest of a large and unprovided family — a great 
favourite too — far more deserving than poor 
Caroline, for she w 7 as kind and grateful to the 

members of the family in which C resided. 

And here again she would bear testimony to the 
generous kindness of those friends, mortified as 
they plainly were, by the preference, or rather the 
exclusive affection these young ladies exhibited for 
each other. Nothing else was cared for, nothing 
else was enjoyed ; the three miles that separated 
them, gave occasion for daily correspondence, 
and daily impatience of all that intervened. The 



gg AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

devotion to each other was, or seemed to be, 
equal ; and there was a further equality not very 
common in these attachments between females — 
which ever was the superior on »the whole, it is 
certain that each one looked upon the other as 
something superior to herself, an object as much 
of admiration as of love ; so at least it is remember- 
ed that Fanny always said, and Caroline always 
felt. If she be living, she may remember other- 
wise. Their mode of carrying on this romantic 
fondness was different enough. Caroline, as usual, 
run headlong into it, said all she thought, did 
all she washed, and committed herself in a thou- 
sand ways, in order to pursue and gratify her im- 
petuous affection. Her friend was calm, polite, 
self-possessed, conciliatory ; she knew the world 
better, and cared for it more ; she never said, or 
did, or looked anything that was not proper ; for 
time, or place, or circumstance ; in short, Fanny 
was always doing right, and poor Caroline was al- 
ways doing wrong — upon the matter of their 
mutual love. 

Was Fanny religious ! All who read this, will 
eagerly ask it. — No ! let God have his glory, and 
the Holy Spirit the sole credit of his work. After 
the deep-felt experience of five-and-twenty years, 
and the thoughtful reconsideration of all that past, it 
is written without hesitation, Fanny was not then 
spiritually enlightened, though apparently religious; 
but Caroline thought she was, and that mistake was 
made the instrument of her conversion. Fanny 



CONVERSION. 59 

had had an early disappointment, probably a blight 
of her affections, certainly of her worldly expecta- 
tions. Her beauty and education had failed to 
procure for her, up to that time, what both she 
and her parents had expected from their charm; 
and what is not uncommon at five-and-twenty, the 
day seemed wearing away, and destiny taking its 
colour from the past rather than from the future. 
In short, the beautiful, fascinating, clever girl, had 
been in love, had been forsaken, and was in de- 
spair — of faith, or truth, or love, for ever after — 
her father was very poor and getting old, disap- 
pointed expectation lay behind, and anticipated 
dependence lay before. The world and Fanny 
" had long been jarring, and could not part on bet- 
ter terms than now;" consequently she denounced 
it, she wished to leave it, she talked much of its 
vanity, she was or thought she w r as of a consump- 
tive habit, and not likely to live many years ; she 
talked much of death, and much of eternity, and 
much of God ; I do not remember that she ever 
spake of Christ, of atoning merits or redeeming 
love. I believe she knew them not, she talked of 
the world's emptiness, levity and injustice. I do 
not remember she ever spake of her own sins. I 
believe her religion was purely sentimental. With 
Caroline it passed for more, she believed all, even 
to the consumptive symptoms and premature de- 
parture, many times shed tears alone at thought of 
losing her only treasure ; but these forebodings 
were, however, not realized. Caroline had not 



70 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

been in love, and had not been forsaken, and had 
received no injuries from the world, but she was 
out of humour with it too. She too was five-and- 
twenty, and thought the past was all, and she and 
the world worn out. The character brought with 
her into the world had now returned upon her, and 
under the auspices of her new 7 friend, when they 
stole at midnight from their separate rooms to pass 
the night together; again — for the first time since 
she sat on the stile at seven o'clock in the morning, 
in "the Folly," at Tunbridge Wells; — she re- 
sumed the reading and enjoyment of Young's 
Night Thoughts — drinking deep of its melancholy, 
its pathos and its poetry without its religion,* as she 
had done at first. In the midst of their sympathy 
about the present evil world, by which was meant 
its sorrows, not its sins, one difference between the 
friends now made itself to be felt. Fanny expected 
something more, Caroline did not, and this plainly 
gave an advantage to her friend: both had, or 
thought they had, lost one world, — Fanny only 
had, or thought she had, the promise of another. 
Not a word of this difference, however, ever pass- 
ed between them, for Caroline never spoke of her 
unbelief, nor confessed the total absence of reli- 
gious feeling in her bosom. Religion was never 

* Recollection of the two periods of her life, in which this 
book was her favourite, has given an abiding" impression, that 
it is not, with all its piety and beauty, very wholesome read- 
ing. 



CONVERSION. 7| 

once the subject of their conversation, as far as she 
remembers. But Fanny read the Bible, Fanny 
said her prayers, Fanny was exact in all her reli- 
gious duties. This was nothing to poor Caroline; 
but Fanny was also very stoical, very patient, very 
meek, very submissive to her destiny, and deter- 
mined to fulfil its duties, however distasteful ; a 
very philosopher in practice as well as in theory.* 
Caroline noted this with shame and bitterness of 
soul, when having passed the night in sympathy of 
thoughts, feeling, judgment, liking, disliking, wish- 
ing and determining, without a difference, they 
appeared in the family circle, the one wilful, excit- 
able, hasty and unsatisfied, the other all calmness, 
propriety and civility. On this difference she pour- 
ed out her heart to her friend, continually be- 
wailing her impetuosity and want of self-control, 
compared with the composure and philosophy ma- 
nifested by Fanny, on all occasions. 

Oh! what it was that turned upon that small 
spring ! I should feel the want of words to tell it, 
but that words however multiplied can add nothing 
to the bare and simple facts. Most Merciful, most 
Inscrutable, it was thy doing! How can it do 
otherwise than surpass my telling. Let the story 
tell itself. 



* When Fanny soon afterwards became a governess, I be- 
lieve she did fulfil the duties and meet the difficulties and 
desagremens in a most unexceptionable manner, and retained 
her first situation till she married. 



72 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Friendship had looked through the cover of si- 
lence that slightly concealed Caroline's infidelity. 
Wanting courage, I suppose, to enter upon the 
hitherto avoided subject when they were together, 
Fanny took the opportunity of a short absence to 
write Caroline a letter. She deeply grieves that 
she has by some means destroyed or lost that letter, 
for it was the sole and single instrument of Heaven 
for the conversion of her soul. She kept it many 
years, and often read it, each time as her know- 
ledge grew, with more astonishment at the won- 
der-working power of God — for there w r as not in 
it one word of gospel truth. The design of Fanny 
in writing was to tell her friend that religion was 
the source of all the advantage over her which 
Caroline had so often noticed, and so often en- 
vied — all that she called philosophy. The whole 
amount of the letter, dilated upon well and feeling- 
ly no doubt, was this, to the best of her recollec- 
tion, — that religion was the only remedy for the 
ills of life, and alone furnished principle for the ful- 
filment of its duties ; that she had religion and Ca- 
roline had none ; therefore it was, as Caroline so 
often observed with pain, that Fanny was better 
and happier than herself, under similar feelings 
and circumstances of life. Caroline believes that 
it contained thus much of truth and nothing more, 
pressed home with kindly remonstrance and per- 
suasion, abetted with arguments and proofs; she 
is sure it contained no mention of Jesus' name, of 
justifying righteousness or sanctifying grace; or 



CONVERSION. 73 

any thing that believers call the gospel of salva- 
tion. But the statement was true, she had no reli- 
gion — it was religion that was wanting in her — 
she who wrote it little knew how true it was; she 
knew neither the extent of the irreligion, nor the 
greatness of the need ; nor the value of the remedy 
she proposed. The truth, the bare, bald truth, that 
religion was the one thing needful that she had not, 
struck conviction to her soul; it was the sword of 
the Spirit, piercing to the very bones and marrow 
of her existence. 

But not without resistance. The first emotion 
on perusal of the letter was a paroxysm of grief 
and indignation; grief that the idol of her affec- 
tions should condemn her, and indignation that she 
should presume to teach her; the next was a de- 
termined resolution that Fanny should not influ- 
ence or persuade her. She would resent the im- 
pertinence ; she would quarrel with her ; she would 
break up the friendship altogether. What business 
of her's was it whether Caroline had any religion 
or not? With which brave but impotent intent she 
wrote a long and bitter reply that night, to be 
forwarded next day. The next day, however, 
brought no opportunity of sending to the parson- 
age at C . The letter remained, and on the 

return of evening was re-opened. The resentment, 
as usual, had spent itself in tears and bitter words, 
and left only pain and mortification to herself; the 
expressions of that resentment were still in her 
own keeping ; she put the letter in the fire, and 
7 



74 



AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 



began to write again. Now she would be kind, 
reasonable, indifferent, philosophical, [superior to 
all such pretensions. She is not sure whether this 
second letter was ever finished, certainly it was 
never sent; and the third evening came: 

" But O what endless ages roll 
In those brief moments o'er the soul." 

Before the third night arrived, the struggle was 
over, the battle had been fought and won, the 
strong man armed was vanquished, the banner of 
Jesus waved peacefully over the subdued and pros- 
trate spirit of the infidel despiser of his word, the 
conscious hater of his most precious name ! Has 
there been one moment since that night in which 
she has not loved it? "Lord, thou knowest." 
There have been many in which she has disgraced 
it. Caroline does not know that ever she has dis- 
owned it. She is sure there has been no time at 
which that name has not been all her hope and 
stay and confidence, for time and for eternity. 
What other could she have in a case like this? 
"Lord, save me, or I perish," has been, and is, 
from first to last, the sum of her religion, dated 
from that most wondrous night ! the first in which 
she knelt before the cross; in which she prayed; 
in which she slept in Jesus; and died, and rose 
again to live in Him for ever. Amen and amen. 

She can give but little account of the actual 
conflict. The battle was not her's, but God's, of 



CONVERSION. 



75 



which she seemed little more than a spectator, 
wishing victory to the opposer of the Spirit. She 
can recal the shame, the vexation, the wounded 
pride with which she first became conscious that 
there was a conflict ; that her heart was moved ; 
and comforted herself that nobody knew it, that 
nobody could know or ever should know, what 
was passing in her mind. Even her friend should 
never know that she had been for a moment 
shaken; the shame of that moment's weakness 
should never be revealed. More than this she 
cannot retrace, the work was done without hand, 
without time, without a process; and like him of 
old, she found herself in her chamber " clothed 
and in her right mind," clothed with " the garment 
of salvation," and assured of sin forgiven, with as 
little perception of the means as he, the less pos- 
sessed than she had been, of the infuriate spirit. 

Whether that evening or the next, she does not 
remember, her friend's letter was answered with 
a full confession and submission to the charge it 
contained, and the truths it urged : but Caroline 
has not the smallest recollection of the manner of 
it, or how much it disclosed of her altered mind. 
She understood too little of the revulsion to ex- 
plain it probably. To others around her, circum- 
stances prevented detection of the change, which 
she had not then the courage to make known ; 
and which she could not have expected to be be- 
lieved or understood, by persons whose religion 
had not the faintest colouring of evangelical truth 



76 AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

or knowledge; whose whole creed was, the "Lord, 
I thank thee," of pharisaic confidence. The un- 
wholesome atmosphere to which, doubtless, was 
attributable, the physical depression she had pre- 
viously suffered, as the winter advanced, brought 
on alarming symptoms of pulmonary disease ; she 
kept her chamber, and after many weeks of the 
most tender, the most feeling, the most unbounded 
attention from that generous family, so much fear 
was excited for her life, that her friends were sent 
for, and she was removed by slow journeys to her 
distant home. All that appeared therefore of the 
change, and became a subject of remark in the 
family, — as, her love for the Bible, and her atten- 
tion to religious reading, was of course attributed 
to sickness, and the contemplation of approaching 
death. What was in her mind, meanwhile? Most 
naturally it was to believe that her conversion 
was the preparation for her soul's departure. She 
believed that she should die, and was well pleased 
to do so, for she knew that she was saved ; there 
was no place for any feeling in her bosom but 
wonder, gratitude, and joy, that the brand had 
been plucked from the fire, at the very moment 
when that fire was to become eternity. There 
needed time to disclose to her, how unmeet she 
was for the companion of her Father's house, to 
which she had been called and chosen, and by 
how long a process the dross of such a heart, had 
to be burned out, by the sanctifying influences of 
the Spirit. Freed from the guilt of sin, she had 



CONVERSION. 77 

yet no knowledge of its power. Her state of 
mind during that illness, may best be compared to 
his to whom it was said, "This day shalt thou be 
with me in paradise:" she saw nothing between 
her and the Lord who bought her, and the inheri- 
tance that he had divided with her. It was a pre- 
sumptuous expectation, but it was the natural 
result of inexperience in the truth ; it was justly 
grounded, and had her illness terminated as w 7 as 
expected, it would not have been disappointed. 
She would have been with Jesus; she says it and 
signs it now, that time and deep knowledge of in- 
dwelling sin, have modified without changing her 
views of the method of divine grace, the doctrines 
of the gospel — respecting, that is, the progressive 
sanctification of the justified believer, the work of 
the Spirit in the elect of God ; she says it in the 
face of years of subsequent vanity, earthliness and 
inconsistency ; in the face of accumulated sins of 
which the burthen is far more intolerable, at times, 
than those that preceded her conversion ; she says 
it in the face of many, who reading these memo- 
randa, may affirm that they knew her after this 
period, with few signs enough of conversion upon 
her; had she died then, her hope would not have 
been made ashamed, she w r as justified in Christ 
without the deeds of the law ; she signs it now, 
and if the opportunity be afforded, should she ever 
live out her three-score years and ten, she believes 
that she will resign it on her death-bed, to the 
glory of the power of the free grace of God in 
7# 



7g AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

Jesus Christ; and the comfort of all who know 
themselves to be the subject of it. But He, whose 
precious gem she had become, had no intention to 
take it from the fire with all its base admixture of 
earthliness and corruption, infixed and indurated 
in a manner the most difficult to eradicate — by- 
habit, by character, by circumstances, and by wil- 
ful opposition to the word, so long indulged. 

It is not the intention here to pursue the ran- 
somed spirit's history. It will be found, if God 
spare her to write it, in the regular progress of 
the memoir. There may be letters extant in 
which, being written at the time, the state of her 
heart is better exhibited than it can be at this dis- 
tance. Her brother was naturally the first, to 
whom she specially declared what God had done 
for her; and with whom from that time forward, 
she was likely to hold the most confidential spirit- 
ual correspondence. His high and decided views 
of doctrinal truth, were likely to meet with all 
sympathy in the first fervour of the new-born soul 
whose history was a confirmation of all that he 
believed and taught. Perhaps he preserved her 
letters ; if so, they will be the best witnesses to the 
truth of the present statement. Private letters are 
of all documents the most veritable of that which 
they disclose of the character of the writer. While 
every other testimony is but the portrait, which 
may or may not be like ; they are the cast ex- 
actly moulded on the living form. If there be 
such letters, they should be here inserted. 



CONVERSION. 79 

Having no religious friends, it is improbable her 
feelings should be disclosed to any by letter but 

her brother, and those sisters, M , L , 

A , who were already members with her in 

the body of Christ ; but separated, as she thinks, 
at that time, from her. Hard, sterile, and unpro- 
ductive was the soil on which the precious seed 
had thus been sown ; the perfecting of Jehovah's 
work will be scarcely less wonderful when we 
come to tell it, than its beginning. Caroline never 
changed her faith, or revoked the profession of it ; 
she never changed her purpose, she never let go 
the death-grasp she had taken on the cross of 
Christ; there was no season when that once ab- 
horred name was not music in her ears, and balm 
upon her lips ; but she was a graceless, senseless, 
and unruly child to her heavenly Father, as she 
had been to all others ; and many, many were the 
years before she or any one else could find the 
fruits of holiness, on that wild olive-branch, en- 
grafted as it was in the pure stem. It bears them 
scarcely still; we will hereafter tell it all. Suffice 
it now, to say, that the most immediate result of 
Caroline's change of heart, was, the happiness to 
which it had at once restored her; at peace with 
God, she made up her quarrel with all things. 
The zest of life returned; she no longer quarrelled 
with her destiny, or felt distaste of all her pursuits, 
or grew weary of her existence without any 
reason. The void was filled, she never after 
wanted something to do, or something to love, or 



gO AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY. 

something to look forward to ; the less there was 
of earth, the more there was of heaven, in her 
vision ; whenever man failed her, Christ took her 
up. She had no more stagnant waters, long as 
her voyage was through troubled ones; she was, 
with all the leaven of the older nature that remain- 
ed, essentially a new creature to herself. 

And Fanny — what more of her? We will tell 
all hereafter; unconscious instrument of all that 
God was doing, she disbelieved the work she had 
performed. Removal separated the friends, but 
for very many years did not divide their hearts; 
they were still dearest of all things to each other, 
but we must tell it here, for it proves the work of 
God. As the vital principle developed itself in 
Caroline, Fanny took offence at it. When Caro- 
line wrote her a distinct statement of the change 
her own letter had been the means of effecting, 
Fanny laughed at it. She did not believe in con- 
version, in regeneration of the Spirit, or anything 
of the sort. She even said, her father held such 
doctrines, but she did not know how she had es- 
caped the infection of his fanaticism ; whenever 
the subject was resumed in their letters, it was an 
occasion of difference and dissatisfaction. They 
never met again, till an event occurred which 
proved that Fanny's heart was as diverse from 
her friend's for this world as it was for the next; 
that her denunciations of this life had been as little 
real as her early anticipations of another ; the 
world might have her back if it would give the 



CONVERSION. 



81 



price. Fanny contracted a marriage, in a world- 
ly point of view advantageous, but the sympathy 
that had seemed to bind the friends together was 
now dissolved; and every feeling they had in com- 
mon proved to be, on Fanny's part, and by her 
own acknowledgment, as merely sentimental as 
Caroline believes her religion was. Caroline wit- 
nessed the transaction, and parted with her friend 
for ever, with a heart w r rung with pain ; several 
years longer, the form of friendship was kept up 
by letter, but the life w r as gone, the death-blow 
was struck. Once only again Caroline saw what 
had been the idol of her affections; it was not the 
thing that she had loved, or that she ever could 
love. Caroline herself was changed, and perhaps 
was as distasteful to her friend. Fanny, the intel- 
lectual, studious, poetic, religious girl, was .... 
if we survive her, we will tell what she was, and 
who she is ; if not, she will read this, and she 
knows. A very short time after Caroline had 
visited her for the first time, and the last time, in 
her married home, a few unpleasant letters having 
been exchanged on the subject of religion, too 
vehement most likely on the one side, too scoffing 
and contemptuous on the other, the discussion 
reached its extremity; and Caroline, with that too 
hasty warmth, that has left so many things to re- 
gret that cannot be undone, desired that their cor- 
respondence should cease. It ceased, and they 



are strangers. 



May eternal mercy grant to Fanny, the bless- 
ing she transmitted, and yet despised. 



LETTERS. 



LETTERS. 

!._ TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 

Hastings, May 19,- 1825. 

My dear Brother, 
I answer your letter something quicker than 
else I might, to tell you that a few days before I 

received it, I heard that Mr. , of Edinburgh, 

wanted just such a curate as you describe, to 
succeed Mr. — — ; I shall subjoin the address, 
and your friend can apply if he pleases, I am 
just returned to my solitary home, and my goods 
being yet in their packages, I cannot even get at 
your letter to reply to it. What I imperfectly 
remember of its contents, is something about my 
own enigmas and something about the world's. 
And I remember thinking while I read it, how 
different an aspect every thing must be seen in 
from the hallowed stillness of your secluded dwell- 
ing, from that in which it presents itself to me. 
And I longed to sit down with you in that tall 
m 8 



gQ LETTERS. 

arm-chair, and Munchausen-like, tell of the won- 
ders I had seen. But how, at this distance, am I 
to sketch for you the features of that world of 
which you inquire — the religious world. Who- 
ever used that expression first, did not suspect that 
he described the thing it stands for, more exactly 
than if he had written volumes. The last term is 
that our Lord has chosen to designate his ene- 
mies ; the first is that which distinguishes his 
friends; the both together is that strange admix- 
ture which is the distinguishing character of the 
present day. I suppose you will not understand 
me now, any better than when I said, — It is time 
to cease from man. Well then, can you not ima- 
gine how a person going always behind the scenes 
to see how the thing is got up, and to see the 
dramatis personse disrobe themselves, &c. &c, 
might grow very weary of scenic representations? 
But this is myself again, and I am going to tell 
you of the world — few people can see so much of 
it really as I do — because I hold no settled rank 
in it, and move in no determinate sphere. One 
day the splendid carriage dashes up to fetch me, 
with two footmen to bang down the steps, lest one 
should not make noise enough: the next day I 
trudge off in the mud with my bookseller's appren- 
tice to carry my bundles; sometimes I am every- 
body, and sometimes I am nobody, and I am 
equally amused with all ; for all is life, and all is 
nature, and all lets me into secrets that those who 
walk a more settled and determined course but 

I 



LETTERS. 87 

iittle wot of; and I note everything, and listen to 
everything, and lay it all up for future cogitation. 
And many a smile I have in private, aye, and 
many a sigh too, at the charlatanage of the de- 
luding world. In respect to its present state, I 
should say nay to what you say, as it regards the 
taste of the public for religious truth. I should 
certify on no light grounds, that the defection lies 
elsewhere; there is appetite for the whole counsel 
of God, but they who are left in charge, have 
found in their wisdom that the food is not whole- 
some, and they dare — I speak strongly, for I have 
felt it strongly — even to tears; I have felt it under 
their pulpits — they dare deny it to the flock they 
have been sent to feed. Comes there a man in 
town or country, or on week-day or Sunday, who 
in simplicity delivers the w 7 hole of his message, 
and you will see how they throng his aisles, how 
they will steal forth like Nicodemus by night, to 
take of the desired but forbidden draught, — afraid 
to be blamed by their ghostly confessors if they 
are detected. Look at their faces while they lis- 
ten to the unusual strain, and you will soon see if 
it be not welcome. Ask them when they go 
away, how they like it? They will speak of it as 
children of a birth-day treat — which to be sure if 
they had it often might disagree with them — so 
they are taught, so they believe; but they can 
relish it well enough. I do not speak of one class, 
or of two classes; I believe this to be the general 
aspect of things. I can set my eye on one pew, 



S8 



LETTERS. 



and say these people are of such a congregation 
— and on another, and say these belong to such a 
chapel— and why are they all come here? And 
many are the times I have whispered in the ear 
of those who sit satisfied, nay, absurdly devoted to 
some favourite preacher of a garbled truth, that 
there is more behind, and have been surprised to 
find how well they knew it, how much they could 
like to have it — but it is not good for them ! The 
servant has grown wiser than his master; the 
messenger can amend his message — God can no 
more be trusted with the salvation of his people — 
Man knows a better way, and expediency is like to 
become the Anti-christ of our land. You question 
my term " magnificent preaching'" — " Why not as 
well without the pomp?' you say. Our powers 
are of God; and if he have given the graceful 
mien — the deep-toned voice, and the overwhelm- 
ing impulse of exalted feeling, and the resistless 
burst of eloquence, which in Athens held the lives 
of men, and in Rome the fate of nations, at its 
pleasure, to be the companions of his grace and 
truth, imparted to the minister of his Gospel, shall 
we say that they are useless? I wot not: though 
I would not over-value them. The great Lion of 

the day is ; a man of most amazing powers 

of oratory: a person of taste, who did not like re- 
ligion at all, might listen to him with rapture, for 
the thing is perfect in its kind. The Christian who 
cared not for eloquence at all, might listen with 
equal satisfaction — for he delivers his 



J, UTTERS. 



80 



fully, boldly, aye, and simply too, with ail his 
oratory; for the wisdom of man is not mixed up 
with it. Then there is Irving, new to me, though 
passed the meridian of popularity. If ever you 
could conceive John Knox — if ever you pictured 
to yourself a blood-hot covenanter, preaching 
three hours together on the field of battle, with a 
highland blade in his girdle, and a bugle at his 
back, as willing to slay as he was to save; as will- 
ing to die, as he was to preach ; fancy all this, and 
you have the man. But you cannot fancy it till 
you have seen Irving— I never could, but now I 
see it all. It w 7 as to me such a realization of ima- 
gination's dreams, that when I heard him first I 
could scarcely refrain from exclamation, so much 
did it seize on my poetic fancy. Common sense 
tells one, that to a chapel full of Holborn shop- 
keepers this is not the thing — and right feeling tells 
one, that this sort of excitation, under a sermon, is 
not to be allowed — and so I went no more: but 
knowing what it is, I would have gone from Lon- 
don to Edinburgh to have heard it once. At one 
of the great meetings, where he got up to make a 
speech, no longer restrained by the feeling that the 
gratification was out of place, I did really jump 
off my seat and clap my hands for joy — but one 
need be a poet to understand all this. Dear old 
Mr. Wilkinson still holds his post; the still small 
voice of truth sounding as it were from out some 
holy recess, where the tumult, and the cavil, and 
the disputation, are unheard or unregarded. You 

8* 



9Q LETTERS. 

read his name in no printed lists — you see him in 
no strange pulpit — you hear of him in no company 
■ — but go to his church, and there you find him, 
the same words ever in his mouth — the words are 
few, and the ideas few, and there is little variety 
in either. He controverts no man's doctrines, he 
takes note of no popular wrongs or rights, he is 
like one who neither sees, nor hears, nor know r s 
what is around him, he comes blindfold from his 
closet to his pulpit, to tell in one, what he has 
learned in the other — the most secret, the most 
mysterious, the most precious purposes of God to 
his own elected people: a tale with which none 
else can have to do, and which none else can un- 
derstand. *•#*.# The man with whom, were I 
resident in London, I should probably settle down 
as my regular minister, is Mr. Hovvells, of Long 
Acre, a Welchman ; not because he is better than 
some others I have named, but because some 
preaching is good to one cast of mind, and some 
to another; and amid the much I have heard since 
I have been now in town, I am inclined to think I 
should be, on the long run, most benefited by 
his. Howells has not a large congregation, but 
a very peculiar one — I should say he puts his 
fingers into other men's gardens, and carries off 
the fruit as it ripens — not in crowds, but here 
and there one. Popular he cannot be, because 
he is above the reach of the untutored mind, and 
above the taste of the vulgar mind. I never saw 
a congregation in which the proportion of inert 



L UTTERS. 



1)1 



was so large, which it is easy to account for. He 
takes the learned of our religious world, but not till 
the whole counsel of God has become acceptable 
to them; for there is no equivocation with him. 
These are the luminaries of London. Others 
there are, the favourites of a corner, the Popes of 
a set — some true to what they know, but knowing 
little — some knowing all, but proudly withholding 
it on their own authority. * * # I spent a week 

at where holds the cure of 20,000 souls. 

The religious few who for years have been ex- 
pecting anxiously his coming, are all forsaking his 
church, while the worldly sit under him at ease. 
When questioned as to his faithfulness, he replies, 
that in two years he will preach otherwise, but 
the people are not ready for it ! What an awful 
responsibility! So much for preachers — but what 
are the hearers doing, you will ask — Who would 
not live in these days, to see two thousand saints 
at a time in Freemason's Hall, and all so occupied 
that they can sit patiently seven hours a day! 
Could the Christians of the days of Paul rise from 
their graves to see, how T would they recognise 
their despised race amid the tramping of horses, 
and locking of chariot-wheels, and thronging of 
fine-dressed ladies, fain to leave their beds some 
hours earlier than they are wont, in the hope to 
get a seat. Placed in these scenes for the first 
time, many and curious were the thoughts that 
came across me. I thought of the caverns in 
which these despised hid themselves — of the sheep- 



92 LETTEllS. 

skins that were their covering, and the berries 
that were their food. And I said, How strange, 
how wonderful are the ways of the Almighty! 
To me the thing was new ; I had never seen a 
crow T d of that description, since the days I saw 
them at the opera or in the ball-room, and whether 
it was the recalled association, or whether the 
animating bustle had merely withdrawn my mind 
from the purport of the thing, I actually started 
when the language of religion first reached me 
from the platform. There was not much good 
speaking, little tone of piety, but most fulsome 
praises of each other. I remained discomforted 
and went away dissatisfied. This was not, how- 
ever, the case the second time. It was for the 
Jew r s — the children of the school were present. I 
cannot tell you all I felt or all I thought while I 
looked at them. The helpless offspring of God's 
chosen people, sitting there as supplicants to the 
bounty of that gay Gentile crowd. Here all the 
poety of my feelings was awakened, many good 
things were spoken, and I was very much delight- 
ed. Next came the Hibernian — see what a de- 
voted saint I am become! There I went too, and 
I was pleased again, for I love the Irish to my 
heart, and the first feeling of incongruity was en- 
tirely over now. I had gotten into the full spirit 
of the thing. An old lady, deep in these matters, 
who sat beside me, said a thing that struck me. 
She was complaining of Irving's impolitic speech 
— I said, " It seems to me he is the only man 



LETTERS. 93 

amongst them who has stood for God, and for his 
truth." She replied angrily, " What is the use of 
that? They come to speak for the interests of 
the Society." I said no more, but I laid up the 
speech to think upon. What he had said really 
was a magnificent warning to the children of God, 
when the children of men come in to join them- 
selves to their counsels — as fine a charge as ever 
I heard ; placing a child of God on such a proud 
pre-eminence, that the great ones of earth seemed 
to dwindle into nothing as he spoke. The Lords 
and Right Honourables looked a little uneasy. 

The last I went to w T as the Naval and Military 
— interesting from its peculiarity. Here more of 
the language of scripture was used than in the 
others; more mention was made of the Gospel of 
Christ, and more use of its words and doctrines — 
and the speeches came not from the church, but 
for the most part from the soldier or the sailor. 
So much for my devotions through the first week 
in May. What have I brought home with me 
from it all? It is fine, it is striking, it is interest- 
ing, and more so than I thought before I went. 
The purpose is good, the means seems to be legiti- 
mate, and the end must surely be what heaven 
designs by this strange change of circumstances. 
Well then, let it go on, and I would aid it heartily. 
But I have brought away this — religion is not the 
popular oratory — -religion is not the crowded hall 
— religion is not the printed list. The children of 
God have need indeed to be w 7 arned, and- if it 



94 LETTERS. 

pleases God, those words of Irving's shall go with 
me to be remembered whithersoever I am bound. 
And so much, my dear brother, for the sketch of 
London. Now of ourselves. You must pay double 
postage, but never mind, you may not get another 
letter for a twelvemonth. J have not read your 
Church History, but have it ready to read. I only 
reached home two days since. I know not what 

to say to V ; I hear strange things about him. 

I have no objection to subscribe to his work; but 
must see it before I recommend it to others. It 
was not true that I was worn wdth labour, but I 
was worn with bustle, too much eagerness, too 
much excitement. I must be quieter. Little do 
you dusty commentators know how we poets live 
and feel. I have just now found your letter. Why 
yes — we are tired of disputing about predestina- 
tion — and as to the Second Advent, we think it is 
no business of ours ! We had rather talk of Sierra 
Leone, and the Catholic Bill, and East India Sugar. 
Aye, truly, I shall enjoy your Job, but I have no 
light upon it, except that a friend of mine says that 
Job could not be happy in the end, if he had the 
same wife! * # * I do not despair to see Desford 
again some time. Love to all the party. I wish 
I had met John in town. After a most tremen- 
dous conflict, such as you would wonder to hear 
about, I trust that the dawn is again breaking upon 
me. Some time I may tell it all, but not now. 
Yours affectionately, 

Caroline. 



LETTERS. 95 

II.— TO MRS. * * *. 

November 6, 1825. 

Dear Thing,* 

I am always pleased to see your little notes, but 
this is a bad account you give of yourself: still I 
think that beautiful sea will do you more good 
than advice here. I believe I ought to have ac- 
knowledged your remittance, but I did not come 
home that day till late, and calculated a letter 
would not arrive in # # * till you were gone. I 
have been thinking to send a note thither for the 
chance of a parcel. 

Now you bid me write by post. I suppose you 
must be obeyed, otherwise I am in that sort of 
mood in which I seldom allow myself to write; 
lest I should get into a tone of sadness, too nearly 
approaching to discontent, to become a child of 
God. These are feelings I attribute greatly to 
indisposition; and the indisposition greatly to the 
weather; of this one is guiltless, and there is no 
remedy but patience. It is, however, difficult, 
when one has cause of sadness, to distinguish one 
thing from another, and to be sure whether one is 
ill, or miserable, or wicked; and when once the 

* This Lady, a few years younger than the writer, was 
her most beloved friend, with whom for twenty years she 
was on terms of the closest intimacy. 



96 



LETTERS. 



scale is bearing downwards, both sorrow and sin 
are ready to throw in their rnake-weights of sad- 
ness. I have been very well till the last week, 
however, and trust it may please God I shall soon 
be so again. The incapacity for employment is 
what I suffer most from on these occasions. I 
thank you, dear, for the inclosure, and for its ma- 
chinery. It does its duty well, and is very useful 
to me. I am in all such matters now very com- 
fortable, and for accommodation desire nothing- 
better. I shall be very glad when you come back, 
for though I shall not very often see you, I shall 
be at liberty to think perhaps you will come, and 
that is something. It has been said, He that mul- 
tiplied riches increaseth sorrow, and as friends 
are part and portion of this world's good, I believe 
the more we have, and the more w r e love them, the 
readier access has disappointment to our hearts. 
But we must not be ungrateful ; we must pick the 
beautiful flowers He scatters on our way, and not 
be impatient that now and then from too much 
eagerness w 7 e prick our fingers. I do sometimes 
wish my heart were as hard as a millstone, but I 
think it is a wicked feeling, and never encourage 
it. Among many things that teaze me now, is my 
publication ; I want to give it up because it is too 
much for my health, and have always intended to 
do so at Christmas. But my publisher is outrage- 
ous, he positively will not stop. I know not what 
to do for the best: but I trust that God will guide 
me. I wish only to do His will, could I know but 



LETTERS. 



97 



what it is. If the work were His, I should be ill- 
disposed to stop it, but I do feel unequal to its 
task ; and surely if He takes away my strength, he 
means me not to continue the undertaking. Let 
me have another little note from you some day, 
dear, to tell me that you are better. I am think- 
ing of going to at the end of the month ; but 

am not certain: and only for a week or ten days. 
God bless you, dear, do not leave off loving me 
because it teazes you sometimes : it is not wasted 
on me, at least without return. 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Fry. 



III.— TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 

* * * 1825. 

My Dear Brother, 
If I w T ere to date my letter from the comet, I 
suppose you know me too well to be surprised. I 
never write to you in a common way, because it is 
of no use, and everything with menow is questioned 
upon the cui bono, if it asks for time. But when I 
take a new peep into this old world, I feel impel- 
led to send you news of it. So here I am — 
stumbled on a visit to # * * whose name cannot 
be strange to you. * * * How I came here, mat- 
9 



gg LETTERS. 

ters not much. I have been with them five or six 
weeks, and am soon to return home. * * # These 
people are most deeply interesting; just in that 
state in which one looks fearfully towards heaven 
to ask what it intends for them. All respect for 
established things gone; the bridle of prejudice 
broken — the deep truth of metaphysical scrutiny 
read to the bottom ; the feelings exhausted by over 
action ; and the conscience withal goaded into an 
almost morbid sensibility, ashamed of the past, and 
bewildered for the present, and vaguely anxious for 
the future. It seems to me that they know not 
what they mean, nor what they believe — some- 
times I tremble for them as upon the point of 
making their peace with the world under whose 
lash they are writhing, by giving in to its habits 
and practices, and hiding their principles in their 
own bosoms. At other times the genuine seed of 
gospel truth seems to be so surely in their bosom, 
that I think they will settle into humble, subdued, 
and devoted Christians. I cannot get at them. 
At one time I hear them pronounce the Calvinistic 
doctrines to be dangerous, and always tending to 
carelessness of life — alas ! they may have seen 
cause to think so — at another time they betray by 
some casual expressions, that its deepest secrets 
are in fact the strong-hold of their faith. If we 
hear a strong doctrinal sermon, and I say I like it, 
they say they do not; but I can perceive that they 
do ! The most interesting person I have seen is 
* * Of him I should say, that if ever I have seen 



LETTERS. 99 

a humbled, subdued, heart-broken, deeply-taught 
christian, it is he. I was but once in his company, 
but there was something that responded to my 
own feelings in all he said and in all he looked, 
that I scarcely can explain or account for ; and 
once I heard him preach, and felt the same. Of 
hirn I should not hesitate to say, he is come out of 
the fire purified. Of # * * I know not what to 
say : he is such a superior being, in intellect, in ac- 
quired knowledge, in goodness, in conscientious- 
ness, in humility, in everything that is beautiful. 
I want to say the same thing of him ; but then if I 
talk with him, he seems or affects to know nothing. 
I spoke of the sinfulness of sin : he said he did not 
know what it meant. I spoke of the love of 
God in redemption, — he did not know what that 
meant, — and yet I verily believe that he does 
know. 

But how shall I tell you the beauty of this place. 
The trees such as you never looked upon ; the gar- 
den with every thing in it, from the rarest foreign 
plant that money can purchase, to the commonest 
wild flower of the hedge, all botanically arranged ; 
and yet so tastefully, and inartificially, you would 
almost believe they came there of themselves ; then 
the library, with all the books in the world, just to 
make one sad, that life is too short to read them. 
I pass the interior of the mnnsion, because I care 
for none of these things. I love the comforts and 
and actual enjoyments of life perhaps too well, but 
its splendours I have no taste for,though, entre nous, 



2 00 LETTERS. 

I have a little taste for the productions of the 
French man-cook. This, however, I at least shall 
learn here, if I knew it not before, which I believe 
I did, — that the abundance of this world's goods, 
adds little to the happiness of its possessors; and 
that I, a homeless, houseless, pennyless creature, 
am a happier being than * # * * with twenty- 
thousand a year at her disposal. And one of her 
miseries is, that with all her means she cannot get 
her children educated ; and about this I must have 
a word with you. Do you know any gentleman 
you can really recommend to the joint office of 
curate and tutor: he should have a wife, be a 
gentleman, and a scholar, and have some of the 
qualities of Job beside. The situation would be 
very lucrative, but very difficult; a good house 
would be provided him, the pupil would be sent 
into the house to him, at a high rate, and he would 
have the opportunity of taking three or four more. 
# * # you know is rector, but wants help. The 
pupil is a most desirable one in himself; I never 
saw a more pleasing boy ; but, owing to a bad con- 
stitution, the enormous value set upon him, and 
the delicacy with which he has been reared, and 
the really good judgment and penetrating intellect 
of the father,andthewomanly feelingsof the mother, 
it is almost impossible for any one to give satis- 
faction. But with all this, there is such essential 
kindness, benevolence, and liberality, that it is 
quite sad that there should be nobody with sense 
enough, and Christian forbearance enough, to over- 
come a few peculiarities and difficulties, and 



LETTERS. |Q| 

gratefully and faithfully to perform the duties 
required, for which they care not what they pay. 
The boy now costs them about £400 a year, at 

Mr. 's ; and they are wretched about the 

distance, and the treatment. I verily believe that 
if the living were at this moment vacated they 
would give it you, or anybody else who would 
preach the truth, and educate their boy. They 
asked me if you would take the curacy, and hold 
it with your living, residing here. I said, No, I 
do not think he would. Do not speak of this out 
of doors, but if you have any one to recommend, 
write to me directly, and as I shall leave here on 
Monday next, direct to me the following week at 
* * * where I am going to see Lydia ; and after 
next week, to my domicile at Hastings. I am 
once more very near changing my residence to 
London ; it depends on the turn of a die, which I 
leave in the hands of Providence to throw. I have 
no choice in it but to do His will. My heart is 
light upon the weightiest matters when once I can 
be sure of my motive ; that is seldom, but this time 
I think I am sure; the advantages are so nicely 
poised, the results so impossible to perceive, that 
there is not a hair's weight to turn the scale, but 
what seems to affect my spiritual welfare, always 
deteriorating in my present residence. In this in- 
clination I may err; therefore simply and heartily 
I leave it for the decision of heaven. How, I 
have no room to explain ; but if I change, you will 
hear of it after Christmas ; it will be to live some- 
9* 



102 LETTERS. 

where in London. Love to dear Martha, and all 
the family, whom some time I hope to see again. 
Affectionately yours, 

C. Fry. 



IV.— TO THE REV. JOHN FRY. 

London, 1826. 

My Dear Brother, 

I have much less communication with you than 
I wish, but I am so overwhelmed I know not how 
to help it. Many times a day things occur of which 
I say to myself, " I should like to tell John this;" 
but I am busy and they pass. Your domestic suf- 
ferings too, have perhaps lessened your immediate 
interest in passing things; and I have felt it would 
be ill-timed to tell you anything of myself or of the 
world. Do not think I have taken no part in your 
family interests. I was thinking of writing to you 
about the girls in particular, but the sound reached 
me of schemes in hand, and I thought I had per- 
haps better mind my business, and wait till I was 
consulted. Now I know all from Lydia, and do 
trust that providence has devised the scheme, and 
will perfect it to good. For myself, I am going 
to say nothing, because I have too much to say. 
If ever I see you again, I may say it all. Should 
I ever have courage to tell the whole of my spirit- 



LETTERS. 



103 



ual story, I believe it will be a picture such as has 
been rarely drawn. Suffice it now to say, God is 
all truth, all love, all wonder, overwhelming won- 
der. Years now have gone wearily over, since 
one bright beam has been upon my bosom ; the 
hold I have maintained has been upon a twig that 
seemed withering in my hand, every moment ready 
to break and leave me to destruction. I have look- 
ed about, but there was none to help ; I have wait- 
ed, and it is come back ; and my bosom is too nar- 
row to hold the happiness that has come into it. 
And this is all now ; I will tell you more hereafter. 
I am requested to send you the enclosed. Have 
you heard that we are all in an uproar about the 
second Advent? If so, you must be curious to 
hear more; they started it at the Jewish anniver- 
sary; but at the Continental Society it was a con- 
certed thing; they embodied it in their motions, 
and identified it with their society. As you will 
have all the Sermons and Reports, I need not tell 
you the nature of them ; but we are all wild about 
it; and there will be a battle as fierce, if not as fa- 
tal, as Armageddon itself. With all my heart I 
wish your sober head had been amongst them, for 
though I love the subject, I fear the party. There 
is *'* # # p most exalted and devoted creature; his 
bosom bursting with love to God and man; but the 
veriest lunatic out of Bedlam. Then my poor 
friend * * # whose past excesses and present defec- 
tions, his indiscretion, and versatility, bring mis- 
chief upon every cause he meddles with, though 



204 LETTERS. 

he never means but right; arid then * * * the most 
splendid and wildest genius enthusiasm ever light- 
ed, all boldness, truth, and zeal, but rash, confident, 
unchastened by experience, and hurried on by po- 
pularity. And last, though in honour he should be 
first, there is the Presbyter — my only hope is in 
his massy brain ; but, alas, men go mad with too 
much brain, as often as with too little. And so 
they are off, the sails are swelled with talent and 
popularity, but I fear there is no ballast in their 
hold. I wish I may be wrong. They are deter- 
mined to proclaim the immediate coming of the 
Lord in glory, to the world in general, nolens vo- 
lens ; and to the Jews in particular, their immediate 
restoration. They are extremely happy to pro- 
duce your interpretation of Greek and Hebrew, 
and I imagine you will find an increase of notice 
of your work; but in the interpretation of passing 
events they outrun you far. I scarcely yet know 
what to think of them. I fear the beautiful subject 
they advocate will be identified with a party, and 
wrecked by their violence. # # #, s piety and sense 
is all my hope. And after all, if it is indeed the 
Lord who has awakened them to announce His 
coming steps, we have nothing to fear for them or 
for their cause. My penetrating eye was perhaps 
too busy> when, through a splendid array of talent 
on the platform, the heart-rejoicing truths they 
poured upon our ears, I read the characters of the 
men I knew, and said doubtingly, " Is this any- 
thing?" I wait with anxious expectation to see 



LETTERS. 105 

what it is. A party will soon be in array against 
them ; and nothing else will be talked of this year. 
Irving's book is very beautiful; how just his inter- 
pretation, time must reveal. For my part these 
things have been so long the familiar belief of my 
mind, that I heard * * # 's sermon without finding 
out that it was not like other sermons, till 1 heard 
next day how much offence it gave, and how 
strange it was. I should like to hear your opinion 
of these spirits. There is no one in our world 
now, who stands so high in general estimation as 
* * # , he has lived down all critics, and outstood all 
censure. You have no idea of the value our church- 
men have for him, and the warmth with which he 
is looked for, and received everywhere. I am a 
little proud of my discernment in having liked him 
from the first. Ask Lydia about him. Among 
other apparitions, there has been a very lovely one 
in the form of a Swiss Malan : I heard him preach 
in French, a sermon such as English ears hear not 
too often. What amused me, was to mark the sa- 
tisfaction with which some persons swallowed in 
French, a dose of Calvinism, that in English would 
have sent them out of the Church. Excepting 
from old Wilkinson, I never heard so exclusive a 
sermon, and not often from him. It was plain, his 
mind beheld no unbeliever while he preached. In 
truth, it was a heavenly morsel to those he meant 
it for, and their language has words of tender- 

7 (DO 

ness and love, we know not where to look for in 
our own. 



106 



LETTERS. 



The inclosed has been written a long time, and 
waiting the chance of a frank. As it is exactly 
what you ask for, perhaps I had better forward it, 
and let you pay double postage, which I cannot 
now avoid. It is a sketch of the party, such as 
may help you to mould your dealings with them. 
I have nothing to do with the breakfast, nor indeed 
did I know, till afterward, that the Prophets were 

assembled here; is the very focus of all their 

machinations. I had a mind to tell you to be 
primed and loaded, in behalf of these enfans per- 
dus, who are like to have no Millennium at present; 
if I am rightly informed of the fire that is to be 
opened upon them. The * * * will charge furious- 
ly, out of spite to Irving, who has drubbed them 
out of the pale of common sense. But I do believe 
that the feeling of the Christian community, — I 
mean of those who commune with their God in se- 
cret, think of these things, and say nothing, — is 
with you; and I cannot help saying to you, Come 
forth and help them. Do not let every blunder- 
headed pamphleteer, brow-beat and abuse them, 
without a knock in return. You will see my judg- 
ment of the party ; of the cause you will form your 
own. At any rate, you need not fear that the 
world will at present sleep upon the question. They 
have immense talent and popularity on their side. 
I look upon * * * * to have unlimited powers of 
mind, deep religious experience, with all the cha- 
racters of a broken and contrite heart, loved of 
God and accepted. But of man he cannot be — 



LETTERS. 



107 



wild, strange, eccentric, imprudent— perhaps more 
literally mad, than I would admit to an enemy of 
religion, or of himself. I will receive Job with 
great pleasure. I do hope sometime to have a ho- 
liday with you, but for this summer I am disposed 
of, there being a strong inducement for reasons I 
cannot explain, to pay a visit to the Abbess of 
C House, which will take me to Clifton in Au- 
gust. I beg you to be informed that six numbers of 
my magazine are ordered monthly for his Majes- 
ty's Library. This is by favour of the new bishop, 
Dr. Sumner. I have not time to add more, but 
shall be happy to communicate with you upon all 
these matters. I did not know you were to stay at 
Desford. I have heard your plans imperfectly. 
Aliis right, and nothing signifies; it is gone as a 
tale that is told. 

Affectionately, 

Caroline* 



V. TO MRS. * * * 

July 25, 1827. 

My dear Friend, 

You will not, I am sure, await my answer, to 

be certain that a request which comes from you 

will not be refused. If it will please you so to 

oblige your friend, it cannot but please me to do 



108 



LETTERS. 



so small a matter for you. I think, however, it 
must wait my return. I can do it while I am with 
you perhaps, but now I am so little stationary, I 
scarcely know where I shall be. I spend the great- 
er part of my time in the open air, and am then 
too much fatigued to do anything. I feel quite 
sure, were I to let you send the books, &c, it 
would be unavailing — evening being the only time 
I am at leisure, and that will not do for painting. 
It shall be done to the best of my capabilities, on 
my return. I thank you, dear, I am as much bet- 
ter as possible in health, and as light of heart as 
one can be who carries her greatest care about 
with her. It is beyond the reach of earth's medi- 
cament, but still not without a remedy. My mind 
is in the position of the Psalmist, when he says, "j[ 
wait upon the Lord." If in the issue I be refused, 
I know that my will must alternately lose itself in 
his. As it is, I am never happy, nor can be made 
so by anything; for the joys of heaven itself are 
overclouded; but except when my health fails, I 
can be cheerful and active, and take of the good 
that Providence daily and abundantly bestows, I 
hope with a grateful, if not a gladdened heart. I 
write to you now from Southampton, but return to 
Stansted on Monday; I have been here ten days 
enjoying my greatest pleasure in its kind, tossing 
on the wide waters. Yesterday I went round the 
Isle of Wight, a scene the most exquisite I have 
ever enjoyed — the steam-vessel keeps close on the 
shore, and by the rapidity of its motions, presents 



LETTERS. 10Q 

a new picture every moment. This sort of amuse- 
ment never fails to brighten my cheeks and elevate 
my spirits. I am not sure about my future move- 
ments, but I shall be at Stansted a fortnight. If 
you do not get any answer to the advertisement by 
the middle of the month, I think it would be well 
to repeat it. I saw some advertisements lately 
which I thought would do, and I wrote to Mrs. * * * 
to inquire about them : because, being on the spot, 
I thought it would be less trouble to her than to 
you; but I have yet heard nothing, I like all that 
you tell me of yourself, dear: I like that you should 
tell it me. While the interest of every thing else 
is waning fast, so fast that I sometimes wonder 
what is to occupy the other half of my three-score 
years and ten, this is a subject of which the interest 
deepens every moment. These bright returnings 
are worth the darkness that precedes them, were 
it not for the sin that belongs to it; but I am per- 
suaded that it comes of our own fault, of our wil- 
ful preference of something else to him. He sees 
it, and leaves us to make trial of our own devices, 
" He is wedded to his idols, let him alone.' 5 What 
we are when let alone, you have amply proved, 
and so have I, too well, I trust, to try our schemes 
again. But certainly you need not fear that He 
will take your rejoicing from you. It was God, in 
some sense, who cast Jonah into the deep : but the 
separation began not with him ; it was Jonah's do- 
ing, not his, that ever he came there. That second 
chapter is a beautiful picture of the darkness and 
10 



110 



LETTERS. 



lifelessness in which we have sometimes found our- 
selves. I say we, for in this we seem to have been 
alike. But I think we are alike in our present feel- 
ings — but that my rejoicing is silenced by circum- 
stances extraneous to my own salvation; spiritually 
I have been at no time so happy as I am now, and 
from much the same feeling as you speak of. We 
shall talk of it together. God bless you. I am 
quite tired, and have written myself sad. 

Very affectionately yours. 



VI.— TO MRS. * * * 

Milton Street, Dec, 8, 1827. 
My dear Friend, 
I was so pleased to find a letter from you on my 
return : it seemed long since I had heard about you. 
Meeting, I grieve to say, appears distant, as you 
are ere this off to Brighton, and next w T eek I am 
off to Bristol ; I cannot consequently accept your 
kind invite for Christmas, unless I should return 
anything of time before my pupils want me: I 
shall stay at least three weeks: I sympathize, be 
assured, in all you feel, and wish I could be with 
you. St. Paul says, " affliction though good is still 
grievous ;" and I suppose he knew. Be not there- 
fore as one is apt to be, depressed because of your 
depression ; I mean by reproaching yourself with 



LETTERS. HI 

it. I believe the Christian's appointment is not to 
be happy — always — but to be peacefully content 
to be otherwise when it pleases God. What frets 
me most is, that you look thin and ill ; I wish I 
could nurse you. For myself, I am brave. I have 
had ten days of absolute enjoyment at * # * a 
scene novel enough. To sit down, Lady # * * 
and myself, every day with four and twenty men, 
all staying in the house ; men distinguished too for 
various kinds of talent, and for no common degree 
of pious devotedness to -God and his truth. I cer- 
tainly felt considerable fatigue from the effort of 
listening and understanding the deep matters in 
question ; but this is not so bad as the excitement 
of playing an active part oneself to amuse the 
stupid ! It was the excitement only of deep think- 
ing. I would not wish its continuance, however ; 
the whole party began to knock up ; they dispersed 
yesteday, and I came home to-day, with a head 
full and a heart full of good and holy things, that 
ought to last me for some season. I really have 
never seen a fairer display of christian principle 
and feeling — and that unity of heart which in such 
disjointed company, nothing but christian love 
could give ; I must tell you about it when we meet. 
I think upon the whole my heart is lighter than it's 
wont. The quiet respectability of my house con- 
tinues to be very valuable. I believe I shall go to 
* # # f or a d a y w j t h ]\f rs# # # # an< J w iU take to 

your house Mrs. G's book ; if not, will leave it for 
you here with Mrs. G . I have had a sitting 



112 



LETTERS. 



to Sir Thomas Lawrence, and am to have another 
this week : so we are in a fair way to finish ; so 
much for self; but I would rather talk of you, 
dear thing; you write in so much sadness, I long 
to come and cheer you. But it must be, dear, that 
we learn these lessons. He whom we follow, little 
as it might seem He needed it, even He was made 
perfect by suffering. How should we be perfected 
without it? Your cup is in many respects so full 
of this world's good there is more to dread for 
you from too much prosperity, than from these 
intervening hours of sadness ; it is necessary, doubt 
not, that your heart should feel desolate amid sur- 
rounding abundance, while others have fulness 
amid surrounding desolation. It is the same be- 
neficent and careful hand that mixes a bitterness 
with the draught of prosperity, and sweetness in 
the cup of destitution, and both to the same end. 
It matters little which we drink, for all will soon 
be over. I feel persuaded that the fashion of this 
world is about to pass away, and all that we need 
care for is to be ready; or, if not, the three-score 
and ten are telling out. Write to me at Bristol, if 
you like, for I am always glad to hear of you. I 

shall be at Mr. John H *s till about the second 

week in January. Give my love to # * # , and 
kind regards to Mr. * * * Good bye, dear thing. 
Very affectionately yours, - 

Caroline Fry. 



LETTERS. 



113 



VII.— TO MRS. * * * 

September 29, 1828. 

My Dearest Thixg, 

My heart reproaches me for not writing to you ; 
and though the time approaches when I trust to 
see you, I think I must try to compound a letter. 
The more so that I hear you have been again in 
trouble, dear, with dangerous illness in your family, 
the ingredient of bitterness, which it seems the 
will of Providence to mix in your else full cup of 
prosperity. I am grieved, but little surprised to 
hear of poor* * *'s increased illness; I thought 
her very. ill ; for though strangers are apt to say, 
and even Doctors are apt to say, that certain feel- 
ings are all nervous, and might be resisted, I never 
believe them in cases such as hers. I hope she is 
recovering, as I have heard, and that you, little, 
kind, busy darling, are freed from your anxiety 
and not injured by your nursing. Write and tell 
me so, if there is time — but I believe there is not 
— I think to leave here the beginning of next week, 
and to reach home before the end of it. This is 
a sorry subject with me ; I grieve and am ashamed 
to say how painful it is to me to think of coming 
home. There is sin I fear, as well as painfulness 
in the feeling ; for I ought not to hate the home 
that heaven has assigned me ; I did not always do 
so: the time has been when I was entirely satis- 

10* 



] 1 4 LETTERS. 

fied with it, and thought I would not change it for 
another's home if I could ; and professed before 
God that I desired nothing but to be able to keep 
it. I wish that this feeling might return; for it 
must be wrong that I now dread always the time 
of my returning, sicken at heart, whenever I think 
of it; I catch at anything that promises to put it 
off. I believe it was this made me give ear to a 
journey to Edinburgh previous to my return ; but 
some increase of indisposition blighting the spirit 
of adventure, and some facility of returning to 
tow r n in company has decided me otherwise, and I 
shall come home next week. I have had a most 
prosperous journey ; every thing since I left Bris- 
tol has turned out well, every facility of circum- 
stance for health and enjoyment has been afforded 
me, and there have been no reverses ; I have seen 
a great deal to interest me by the way, especially 
in Ireland, where I was detained by pleasure, not 
by illness ; and in this delightful seclusion, with 
my most precious and beloved friends after years 
of separation, I am as happy as I can be, who for 
years have ceased to know what it is to feel en- 
tirely happy. The worst part of my summer his- 
tory, is, that with " all advantages and means to 
boot," I am not better. From the time of leaving 
Bristol*, I travelled to a certain point of betterness; 
for forty hours I think I was well — that was at 
Holyhead ; since which I have travelled back to 
where I set out : my hysterical feelings have 
terribly increased ; my walking powers are not 



LETTERS. l j 5 

amended : and I have nothing in prospect for my 
return, but the same confinement, joylessness, and 
uselessness, that preceded my departure. I have 
again had medical advice, and received a multi- 
tude of directions for things possible and impossi- 
ble, of which the former half, I suppose, will lose 
their charm, for want of performance of the latter ; 
but I shall try. I believe, however, that the bet- 
ter charm will be, by heaven's grace, to make up 
my mind to accept as unseen good, what seems 
evil ; to submit to idleness as a proof that God has 
nothing for me to do ; and to joylessness as an 
evidence that enjoyment would do me harm. It 
seems that this would be greater wisdom than to 
contend against feelings w 7 hich have resisted the 
most favourable circumstances. My Doctor's 
most imperative prescription is, that I shall do no- 
thing mentally, or bodily, that can be left undone. 
What would you do w T ith such a prescription as 
this, dear little activity? Not observe it, I believe, 
for all your faith and perseverance in medical di- 
rections. I am very reluctant to leave this spot ; 
but for one reason, I should like to stay here a 
twelvemonth. I feel the want of my own church ; 
the cold and comfortless Sundays that bring no 
sermons, and scarcely any services to cheer and 
gladden the heart. The country is beautiful, but 
not so beautiful as Ireland. The county Wicklow 
exceeds all I have seen in Wales or England for 
picturesque beauty. I w 7 as better there, but never 
w T ell except upon the sea. Dear Thing, be at 



\\Q LETTERS. 

home when I return, and keep a warm corner in 
your heart to welcome me, for I shall need some 
pleasure amid the abundant sadness I shall feel, 
and there will be none greater than to see you 
again. Do not write unless you can do so before 
Sunday; do not forget to love me, and to let 
me be, 

Very affectionately yours. 



VIII.— TO MRS. * * ». 

Monday, October, 1828. 

My dear Friend, 
I was very happy to find your letter on my ar- 
rival on Saturday; I should have told you so be- 
fore, but I had no senses that night, and yesterday 
only got up to go to evening church. Here I am 
however, as well as I may expect, considering that 
I was in bed all the day previous to my journey, 
and so unwell on the road as to be obliged to stay 
two nights at Oxford. But I scarcely yet know 
where or how I am. Come and see me as quickly 
as you are able ; no fear of finding me out, and my 
heart will rejoice to see you. Poor dear! Do 
not reproach yourself for sadness and ingratitude; 
what you feel is merely the result of physical ex- 



LETTERS. 117 

haustion, the after-misery of too much anxiety and 
exertion. Treat it as such, and not as moral, far 
less spiritual defection. Humour yourself and rest 
yourself, and believe that God knows you are but 
dust, and judges of you according to your feeble- 
ness. No, dear, I do not think you fickle, but it is 
a hard matter, when we know ourselves, to believe 
that anybody can love us long ; and as day by day 
we find out that w r e are nothing, of all the great 
things we have thought ourselves, there is an in- 
voluntary apprehension that others will find it out 
too, and cease to care for us. Happily there is no 
fear of this from Him whose love is best, for He 
knew all at first. I write in haste ; God bless you, 
dear. My kindest love to * * *. Come soon. 
Very affectionately, yours. 



IX.— TO MRS. * * *. 

January 31, 1829. 

Dearest little precious, 
To have your note to answer this evening, is a 
blessing to my idleness; for idle, miserably idle are 
my hours day by day. My cares with you, dear, 
did me no harm, they only for a season diverted 
my mind from the weight that oppresses it, and 
made me seem the better that I am not; as I 
always discover when the temporary excitement 



118 LETTERS. 

subsides. And so I am neither worse nor better 
than before I shared your painful tasks. You tell 
stories, — I may know or I may not know, for 
friendship's eye is keen, and conscience is treach- 
erous ; the nature of the sins that weigh upon your 
heart, and those which blacken my own, may or 
may not be of the same nature; for I have never 
shocked any eye but that of Heaven with the ex- 
hibition of them. But of this I am quite certain, if 
sympathy can be secured by the measure of sin, 
of sorrow and of self-reproach, I can sympathize 
with yours, for I defy them, yes, I do defy them to 
exceed my own, whatever difference of character 
they may bear. But we know that we are par- 
doned both. The memory of these sins with God 
is blotted out: thence is our joy: — with us it must 
go to our graves, thence is our sorrow; and so far 
from believing in an experience, all of sorrow or 
all of joy, I believe the exquisiteness of the one 
will, in every mind, be proportioned to the agony 
of the other. And be our assurance what it may, 
and it cannot be too much, there will be these re- 
turns of bilter self-reproach. Satan knows his 
opportunity too well to miss it. Whenever the 
spirits are depressed by outward circumstances, 
the nerves shattered by disease, or the enjoyment 
of spiritual things overclouded; he comes in to 
disturb what he cannot destroy ; he brings to mind 
the former things which he but knows too well. 
Too well he knows the secret things of the heart 
where once he reigned, and he lays them bare be- 



LETTERS. U9 

fore us whenever opportunity serves, in hopes to 
drive us from our hold on Christ. Thus he is 
emphatically called in Scripture M the accuser of 
the brethren," and he has more witness to bring 
against them than any other, because he was a 
partner in all their crimes. And because he may 
no more accuse us before God, he accuses us to 
ourselves, that we may judge ourselves when God 
will no more judge us. This is your case at the 
present moment, and it is often, very often mine. 
Thank God ! experience has taught me to recog- 
nize the countenance, and the language of that 
accuser: though still he comes to tell again his 
oft-detected lie, — " Too wicked; too wicked to be 
safe !" Bid him get behind thee, dear, whenever 
he tells thee so ; and appeal to Jesus, for he hates 
that name, and flies the very sounding of it. As 
to your thoughts of chastisement for past sin, I do 
not think we may look for it with emotions of fear. 
I think the chastisements of God upon his people 
are prospective; retrospective never. Do you see 
what I mean, dear; if I had yesterday a cankered 
wound in my hand, the careful surgeon may come 
to-day and cut it off. Not because it was diseased 
yesterday, but that it may not be so to-morrow : if 
he saw it cured, he would not cut it off. Exactly 
in this point of view, I look upon the chastisements 
the believer has to anticipate. No punishment but 
that which is remedial; if the sin which last year 
broke out into action of offence before God, be this 
year existing unabated in my bosom, ready to 



120 LETTERS. 

break out again, then chastisement must come; the 
bitter remedy must be applied ; the painful cure 
performed, because by any means, or all means, I 
must be made holy. This is all my idea of pun- 
ishment for forgiven sin. The sin of yesterday 
will not be punished, unless it be to prevent the sin 
of to-morrow. Our Father will spare it if he can; 
there is no wrath in his bosom for the past: and if 
my view be right, I see in it no ground of depres- 
sion, but rather of rejoicing, of encouragement. 
If we hate the sin more than its consequences, 
which I believe we do, we shall rather hope than 
fear, to see those consequences doing execution 
upon the sin. It is very different from punishment, 
resentful, retrospective punishment. Never think 
of that. What is past of sin is forgotten ; what re- 
mains of it in the bosom is remembered to be 
eradicated. Oh ! you dear little creature, you 
think your heart is worse than any other; and well 
you may, for it is the only one you ever saw. But 
I could show you one to match it, if indeed it be 
not worse, which I suspect it is. But of the 
heights of joy, and of the depths of anguish, I 
could almost say of hell itself, you can tell me 
nothing that I do not know ; and I am sure that 
one state is as safe, though I say not as desirable, 
as the other, and it is in the latter state that faith 
is strongest : if it abide at all in the former case, 
it participates so much the nature of sight. Whose 
faith think you was strongest, the disciples' on the 
Mount, or Jonah's in the deep ? I conclude the 



LETTERS. 121 

latter. Be comforted then, and if you be sunk as 
far from light as he, do as he did, and it will soon 
be day. But now, dear, if I have written you 
comfort, I pray you write me some — for I am as 
sad as you, as low, as joyless, though not exactly 
now in the same frame perhaps; and nobody com- 
forts, nobody counsels me — well, I must wait too. 
I am glad for the recovery of your party; as for 
the prints, they have been in my way ever since; 
but I could not remember to send them. Nor 
shall I now, unless you ask for them when you 
come; yet have I kept them carefully. When 
shall you come? not soon? Do not come on 
Thursday, for I shall be out all day — 
Your's, affectionately, 

Caroline Fry. 



X.—TO MRS. * * *. 

March 19, 1829. 

Mr dearest Thing, 

Your sadness is so much on my mind, and your 
dear little mournful face, I cannot help writing to 
you. Yet what to say? Only to repeat the still- 
repeated tale; for ever true, and still to be believed, 
when all without us and within seems to belie it. 
This is the case with me, and it may be with you. 
I cannot see that God is good, I cannot feel it, but 
11 



222 LETTERS. 

still I can believe it. I have not joy, I have not 
comfort, — how then can I give it to you? But I 
have faith, and with that, dear, I would try to en- 
courage you. Your position is full of painful cir- 
cumstances, and well I know what is the sickness 
of baffled hope, and seemingly unanswered prayer. 
All I can say to you is, to remind you of the 
strong faith, the vivid joy, so lately granted you; 
when your mountain seemed to stand so strong 
that nothing could move it. I knew better, be- 
cause I had tried all this before you: and I knew 
that trial and much casting down must follow. 
When the disciples were on the Mount, they 
would have built tabernacles to remain there; but 
only for a moment were they on that height, to 
prepare them for the depths of temptation and 
affliction they had to pass through. So Paul, 
w T hen he had been in the third heaven, and be- 
cause he had been there, found it needful that he 
should be humiliated and afflicted to prevent spi- 
ritual pride. Your case is similar. You had so 
bright an enjoyment of God, so full a taste of the 
freedom which his entire salvation gives, to ena- 
ble and prepare you for all the trials of your faith, 
and all the depressions on your spirit that have 
come upon you since, and may be still to come; 
and you will not mistrust in darkness Him you 
have beheld in light. It were but a little matter 
to trust him and love him then. The excellence 
and reality of your faith will prove itself by loving 
and trusting him now; by believing that all is good 



LETTERS. 223 

when all seems evil; by hoping when there seems 
no ground of hope; by giving praises in the midst 
of sorrow. This, dear, is the best I can say to 
you: because, to say that you have not cause for 
fear and cause for sorrow, is not to speak truth; 
and though I may truly say I yet hope to see your 
fears removed, it is a more Christian tone of con- 
solation, to say that God will support and bless 
you in the midst of trouble, than that he will avert 
it, — the which he has certainly not promised, 
though frequently he does it in answer to our 
prayers. And may he so to yours, dear, or rather 
to ours, for I pray for you daily. I w 7 ish you 
would soon write and tell me how you go on. 
And particularly do not let Satan harass you with 
thoughts of self-reproach, as if, if you had done 
other than you did, or had been other than you 
were, things would have come out otherwise. 
That is a favourite lie of his, to harass the grieved 
spirit. That it is one, be sure. The salvation of 
any one soul, cannot depend on any human agen- 
cy ; what God means to do, he puts it perhaps 
upon some honoured agent to perform, but not in 
a way to be hindered by their unworthiness, or 
defeated by their unfaithfulness. To think this, is 
to take salvation out of God's hands into our own, 
and does him much dishonour. * *##### 
Good bye, dear. It is a great effort to write even 
this scrap, for my spirits are so bad, my mind so 
gloomy, I think it best to abstain from writing 



124 



LETTERS. 



to my friends, lest I give unfit expression to my 

feelings. 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Fry. 



XL— TO MRS. * * * 

Nov. 28, 1829. 

My dearest Thing, 

I was wishing much for the postman to bring 
me one of the well-known notes that always come 
in so welcome. There is no perceptible reason 
why I should not come to you next week, if I am 
in the least degree worth your having. This only 
I am inclined to doubt. I have not been so well 
the last week, and my spirits have been low be- 
yond what I can account for by any known cause. 
I was so much better in this respect, the only thing 
really painful in my illness, that I cared little com- 
paratively for the rest ; but this week I am quite 
down again, with little relish or desire for any- 
thing; and scarcely able to control my tears. 
Under this circumstance, I should say to anybody's 
ask but yours, I will come if I am better, but to 
you I still say, I will come if you like me. I be- 
lieve, however, that the close weather may be the 
cause of my being so unwell, which the lapse of a 
week may make a change in. How I want to see 



LETTERS- 125 

you I cannot say. I feel great hope that your 
anxiety for Mr. * # * is gradually subsiding, and 
will be removed. For poor * * * 's case I feel 
anxious, but not despairing. You, dear thing, are 
in the hands of Him who loves you, and has set 
his seal upon you to secure you for his own : harm 
cannot come to you, though sorrow may, and even 
in the midst of it you will be as Paul, " sorrowing, 
yet always rejoicing." I want to gossip with you 
sadly, to cheer and to be cheered. If I know not 
how my writings can comfort you, dear, as little 
do you know how it comforts me to hear of it ; for 
in the great sadness of my spirit at times, I have 
the feeling of being useless to everybody and 
worthless for anything; everything I have done 
seems wasted and amiss, with a hopeless discou- 
ragement ever to do more. To believe, if I can 
believe it, that one hour of anybody's sadness has 
been lightened by my means, is a real medicine to 
my own. Under some such feeling, after receiving 
some such commendations, I penned the few lines 
I have enclosed; no, not penned, this is the first 
penning, but jumbled in my head. They come to 
you, because they mean what they say — they ask 
a prayer; and perhaps where people mean what 
they say, as you do, about my writings, they may 
win one; so here they come: at least they will di- 
vert your mind for ten minutes. I have received 
a letter from Mrs. H. M to-day, with an ac- 
count of my poor friend's death, which did not 
take place till last week, and a message from her 

II* 



126 LETTERS. 

death-bed; it was most happy. God be thanked I 
do not mourn her death, she was too miserable for 
friendship to wish to keep her. But a thousand 
recollections of by-gone days, life's broken pro- 
mises and abortive hopes, have come to me in the 
reading of this letter, and perhaps not raised my 
spirits. In sadness or in joy, still, 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Fry. 

The thanks be to another — look you there 
Upon the midnight's solitary star; — 
It is not hers ; the light she sheds on you, 
She borrow'd it — she soon may want it too. 

But oh ! if ever on a night of yours, 
The poet's lay has scattered moonlight hours — 
Shed one bright beam upon a doubtful road, 
Or ting'd with silver streaks one parting cloud : 

If ever, by the glimmering of her light, 
You 'scaped the snare intended for your feet ; 
Or from the altar of her hopes have won 
A spark of fire to re-illume your own : 

Then think upon her when her light grows dim, 
When falls upon her disk no sunshine stream ; 
Think when she wanders, from observance gone, 
Perhaps in darkness, and perhaps alone. 

It may be that in all her hours of wane, 
None pays to her the sunbeam back again; 
Nor any star begirts with grateful light 
The clouds that hang upon her bosom's night. 



LETTERS. 



127 



Go then to God — and if before the throne, 
There comes the thought of ought that she has done ; 
Leave there the thanks, and leave the praises there — 
But Oh ! remember, that she needs the prayer ! 



XII. TO MRS. * * * 

Nov. 1829. 
My dearest Friemd, 
It is never any trouble to me to get your notes, 
no matter what brings them. I enclose you the 
letter you desire. They will see by it my opinion 
of the miracles, and also of the party that have 
promulgated them; and if what I think might be 
of importance to any, I wish it were proclaimed 
from the house-tops. Yes : I too have heard Mr. 
* * * since his ocular demonstrations, and I heard 
him say that the regeneration of the soul by the 
Holy Spirit, does not make a man the temple of 
the Holy Ghost, but these miraculous gifts do: that 
not to believe them ivithout proof, is not to believe 
in God ! Would you take the authority of such a 
bedlamite as this, even for what he says that he 
has seen? I would not. Dr. Chalmers did say that 
of Irving, but it was three years ago — antecedent 
to any of these flights that he has taken. I am 
grieved exceedingly that Mrs. # * * has followed 
this party: but I am not exactly surprised. It is 



128 LETTERS. 

to be observed, that all the adherents of Mr. Ir- 
ving have believed these miracles, and not one in- 
dividual that I have met with beside. I certainly 
do counsel you, for yourself, not to trouble your- 
self about them; but if it does occur, as in spite 
of ourselves it sometimes will, that we must speak 
for others' sake, then it is needful our protest 
against them be plain, firm, and decided. I am 
resolved for my own part how to act. I will keep 
out of their way as much as I can: when I can- 
not do this, I will refuse to discuss their doctrines; 
but whenever compelled to speak, there shall be 
no mistake as to what I think about it. Of course 
you know, or will know, that # # * and the girls 
are going, — actually going, to Scotland, for the 
avowed purpose of seeing these wonder-workers. 
Mr. * * * has a right to please himself in the ob- 
jects of his travel, to be sure; and that is no busi- 
ness of mine — but girls, young girls ! Alas! dear, 
there are more kinds of revolutions in the world 
than one; and if we live long, we shall see more 
things overturned than the thrones of the Bourbons. 
I am just returned from a dinner party, where I 
was obliged, a contre caur, you may believe, to 
take part against a disciple of prophecy; because, 
with no very deep knowledge, as I fear, of Christ 
crucified, he chose to propound, that every man 
who resists these views of the Advent, wilfully de- 
nies the w r ord of God ; in short, that they are es- 
sential and indispensable. Now is not this enough 
to make one, if it might be, deny one's creed ? 



LETTERS. J 29 

Thank you, dear, I know you wish me happy, but 
I am too miserable to say words about it. My 
head has been very bad during the cold weather, 
but is better again this week. Write often. 

Very affectionately yours. 



XIII. TO MRS. * * * 

February 15, 1830. 
You are such a sensitive little darling I really do 
not know how to deal with you, much as I am ac- 
customed to hasty people. Oblige me, dear, at 
least by reading my note again when you are cool; 
you will surely perceive that you mistook every- 
thing in it: that it was not intended or calculated 
to lower you in your own opinion, or sadden your 
heart. You will see that I said your note had not 
caused my silence. And when I spoke of your un- 
sanctified words, thoughts, &c, I had no idea of 
making a charge against you, but to assent to that 
of which I thought you complained ; which I 
thought you knew; which I thought every Chris- 
tian knew ; which if I had said of myself, I should 
have expected you to assent to; and which I 
should not have contradicted had I heard it said of 
any saint alive. I did not, my precious little thing, 
mean to say that your character was more unsanc- 
tified than my own. I declare before God I do not 



130 



LETTERS. 



think so. You have many advantages over me, in 
natural disposition, and the greatest advantage I 
have over you is in experience ; I see your faults 
because I have committed them; I- know the 
fallacy of your words, because I used to say them ; 
I perceive your mistake because I have suffer- 
ed from the same; and I warn you of dangers, 
because I fell into them myself unwarned. Far 
be it from me to tell you, you are better than you 
think. I believe you are worse than ever you 
knew or can know. But I meant to tell you, and 
I thought what I had said would have that effect, 
that you were not to be cast down by the dis- 
covery of faults that every saint must discover at 
every step of his progress heavenward. My dear 
thing, do you repeat every Sabbath on your knees 
before God, that there is " no health in you," and 
yet feel surprised and pained on the Monday to 
discover that you have faults, or to hear that others 
have perceived them? The time will be, and per- 
haps not long first, that you will never feel asham- 
ed or sad, but when you are commended. I would 
not for any thing have said what I did, if I had 
thought it would sadden you ; even what I re- 
marked of your manner, I should not have said, 
had I not understood you to complain of it; and 
though true, I wished you not to distress yourself 
about it, as if it were an evil really in your heart. 
I must have been very awkward to hurt when I 
meant to heal ; but, dear thing, you must not 
attach too much importance to what people write 



LETTERS. 



131 



in moments of st.ch intense suffering as I am 
under; it affects our expressions, and often makes 
bitter what should be kind, and is really meant to 
be so. You think too well of me a great deal, 
which is an evil in our friendship, because you 
expect better from me than is in me; and attach 
importance to opinions that are not worth a straw, 
and when we differ you are fretted, as if I were 
not just as likely to be wrong as you. I will tell 
you something Mr. Howells said yesterday. 
Preaching on the words of St. Paul, " Of whom I 
am the chief,'' he remarked, that Paul does not 
say he had been, but that he actually was, at that 
time, the chief of sinners: although he was per- 
haps, the greatest character, next to Christ him- 
self, who ever lived on earth. He added too, that 
he believed the words should be taken literally as 
true, that not only did Paul think himself to be, 
but that he actually was, the chief of sinners. 
Now dearest, be comforted ; Think as ill of your- 
self as you like ; but do not be surprised, do not be 
cast down by the discovery. Read my note again, 
and see how different it is from what you thought. 
I love you very dearly, I am quite as much hurt 
as you can be when you say w r e do not understand 
or suit each other. I do not believe it. Your 
kindness and affection have been of great value to 
me in my great sorrow, and will be so still ; no- 
body has contributed more to my comfort than 
you have done since I knew you. If I said you 
cannot help me, I meant at this exact moment ; 



J 32 LETTERS. 

because I must stay at home; and your occupa- 
tions necessarily keep you from me. You are my 
own little precious, and though these may seem 
terms of which I am prodigal, I never will use one 
of them unless I mean what I say. With regard 
to pain you have given, dear, you did not mean it; 
I was never angry, though I was pained; — you 
did me no wrong. I have written with difficulty, 
but I could not forbear. My head-ache is intense; 
I can hardly describe the state it was in last night 
from the excitement of going to church in the 
morning: where, by the by, I found out how much 
that which is good may be exceeded by that which 
is best. You know I have been pleased, and yet 
in hearing Mr. Howells again I wonder how I 
could be, so much is he superior to everything 
else ! Now as you construe everything to your 
own disadvantage, you will remember that I said 
you would not like him. I meant no depreciation 
of you or him in saying so ; I feel very curious to 
know how it would be; but I think his irregularity 
would put your mind into utter confusion before 
you had time to compass his meaning; some of his 
astounding propositions would so overset you at 
the commencement, you would not sufficiently re- 
cover yourself to enjoy the rest; — this is what I 
meant. 

I meant you to have this by the first post to-mor- 
row, but I have had so many visitors ; and now I 
am so tired I cannot write more, and my dinner 
is come in. Dear little Thing, you can do me 



LETTERS. 



133 



good even now — you can pray for me — and I be- 
lieve that is a greater good than most that we 
can ever do for each other. 

Very affectionately yours. 



XIV.— TO MRS. * * * 

Hampstead, Monday, April 26, 1830. 

My Dear Thing, 
How much the few added miles has really sepa- 
rated us, I feel every day. It was not, however, 
an uncounted cost. You, as my dearest and 
kindest friend, I considered the greatest loss : but 
I must of course feel the loss of my London socie- 
ty generally : and do so very much. But if the 
sacrifice is only what I calculated upon, the gain 
is much more; for I am better beyond my expec- 
tations. The exhilaration I feel in wandering 
about this beautiful heath, is more than I have felt 
since our summer excursion ; and even my home 
feelings are much improved. I have felt even an 
inclination some days to resume my pen and en- 
lighten the world again ; and have really had the 
long unknow T n sensation of wishing I had some- 
thing to do: a very different sensation, I assure 
you, from that I have so long suffered, of wishing 
I had power to do something. So far, therefore, 
I am satisfied and grateful for the change. I 
12 



] 34 LETTERS. 

have no pupils yet; but I dare say they will come; 
when it pleases God to send them. I cannot be 
anxious upon a matter which has been managed 
without my foreseeing how it was to be, for these 
twenty years past; during which I have never had 
anything, nor ever wanted anything. I have 
never known how any year's expenses were to be 
provided, but they have been. This is ground 
enough for reliance. But not to claim too much 
for my trust in God, I must acknowledge the effi- 
cacy of one great care to absorb all lesser ones. 
# # * # # # ■* # Enough of self. I should not 
have suffered your former letter to have remained 
unanswered, dearest, had I known how to reply to 
your expressions of sadness. This I did not, hav- 
ing no clue to the cause, not even enough to judge 
whether the trial were some external cross, or 
some internal struggle with your soul's worst 
enemy. In this uncertainty, I feared that if I at- 
tempted to speak, I might say exactly the wrong 
thing, and wound where I desired to comfort. 
Your situation necessarily exposes you to many 
external difficulties, but He that is for you is 
greater than all that is against you ; be mild, firm, 
and faithful, and you will pass safely through 
every storm. To external conflicts, your own 
character eminently exposes you ; but here too 
you have no cause to feel: the battle must be 
fought, but the victory is sure; you began it not in 
your own strength, and therefore cannot lose it by 
your own weakness. Go on in the strength of the 






LETTERS. 135 

Lord, and fear no evil in the issue; nor any thing 
in the way but sin ; the contact, the approach, 
the semblance of sin: fear that increasingly, as 
you would save yourself from those returns of 
misery which are its genuine consequence. But I 
am talking at random, and may well leave off. I 
have promised to see the *■ * * if-I .am-af # # * 
while they are there ; then I shall make] you go 
with me, and show you to them, for I think they 
would like you, and you would like them ; though 
under all circumstances, formal visiting would 
hardly perhaps be available. God bless you, dear; 
it does grieve me not to see you, but I know it 
cannot be otherwise : write soon. 

Very affectionately yours, 

Carolixe Fry. 



XV.— TO MRS. * * * 

Monday Evening, 1829. 

My Dearest Friexd, 
I was very sorry to miss your visit in town ; as 
for writing, I deferred it till my return home. 
Thank you now for your various communications, 
all kind like yourself. The cap is very pretty, and 
I am infinitely obliged: but have you not cheated 
yourself in the outlay? If not, I certainly cannot 
complain of the expenditure, and am be-capped 



]3(j LETTERS. 

for some time. I am less surprised than grieved 
that you are ill ; for I thought you seemed so ; 
send me a better report, and do not be down- 
hearted, dearest; lights and shadows are perpetu- 
ally passing over this transitory scene. Things 
look cheerless sometimes, we scarce know why; 
and then the sun breaks out on them again ; and 
all seems well, though nothing is really changed. 
Thus it must be for a season, but all will pass, and 
endless serenity is beyond. Yes, dear, I did en- 
joy, for novelty's sake, my little stay in London, 
and the convenience it afforded me of doing busi- 
ness and seeing folks. Perhaps I enjoyed the as- 
sociations of its sights and sounds with by-gone, 
but unforgotten misery. And certainly I enjoyed 
the comparison of its turmoil with my quiet home, 
its insipid society and empty converse, with the 
vivid, deep realities that form my delights apart 
from it. It is well to look upon the world some- 
times, to learn how blessed we are to have escap- 
ed its barrenness. What bliss do men forego ! 
What trash do they take up with instead ! This is 
the conclusion one comes to everywhere, be it 
town or country. Let the Christian go where he 
will, his greatest happiness is that which he takes 
with him : and if this is true of all, how doubly 
true of me, whose temporal as well as spiritual 
happiness is independent of place or circumstance, 
— is that which the world did not give and cannot 
add to. I am very glad to be at home again. 
Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Fky. 



LETTERS. 237 

XVI.— TO MISS * * * 

Hampstead, June, 1839. 
My dear Girl, 

* * * * I have heard this story before, but things 
are so diluted in the retail of society, I am glad to 
have it from the manufactory, I was going to say; 
but that is to prejudge the case. I have also been 
often asked before what I say to it. I generally 
answer that "I say nothing at present, but that I 
do not believe it." I will not put you off with so 
brief an answer; I am not likely to let a thing of 
this sort, perhaps of any sort, pass by me unconsi- 
dered, though I do often refuse to discuss them 
with my young friends ; thinking it best for them 
to hold their tongues, whatever it may be for me. 

I have a very decided opinion upon this subject, 
which I can have no objection to give when seri- 
ously asked, reserving to myself the right to change 
it, if ever I see occasion. According to Mr. Ers- 
kine himself, two things are to be considered in 
estimating the truth of any report, viz., the charac- 
ter of the narrator, and the credibility of the nar- 
ration. I confess that to me, the former conside- 
ration weighs all against the reception of this story. 
The party with whom it originates, and among 
it is at present confined, is certainly not marked 
with any character of sobriety. They are pious 
and talented, but they are not sober-minded ; they 
love novelty better than their daily bread. The sim* 
12* 



2 38 LETTERS. 

plicity of divine truth, and the equal dealings of 
divine providence, are not to their taste; they have 
mystified the plainest doctrines of the gospel; they 
have made war upon every thing common and re- 
ceived; they have quarrelled with their mother- 
tongue, because it can be understood. Having 
thrown the whole church into confusion, they have 
called their own uproar, a "sign of the times :" 
and denied salvation to all who will not run with 
them to like excess of riot. Such a party is ex- 
actly the quarter from which one might expect 
such a story, and the last from which one would 
receive it. Then the character of these miracles, 
so much in unison with their own excited feelings; 
their expectation of the Redeemer's coming; their 
love of His appearing; the readiness with which 
enthusiastic minds always expect what they desire, 
and imaginative ones fancy what they expect; 
every thing identifies the offspring with its parent- 
age, the wonder-workers with their wonders. Pi- 
ous people are not always wise, and clever people, 
by reason of their temperament, are peculiarly 
liable to extravagances w r here their feelings are 
interested. So far from considering the people as 
credible witnesses, I own that any thing coming 
from them at this moment, would wear to me a 
suspected character: Then the probability of the 
narration ! You know that I expect as fully as 
they do, the events of " the last day ;" but the more 
I believe of this, the more I am upon my guard 
against the "T,o hern ! or \ 4 o there!" with which 



LETTERS. J39 

the levity of men anticipates the majestic walk of 
Deity. I know that God can do what he will, and 
will do what he has promised; but I am accustom- 
ed to adjust my faith to the promise, not the pro- 
mise to my faith, as is the fashion now with some. 
Though it is true the Scripture nowhere says that 
miracles shall cease, I am equally sure, it nowhere 
says that they shall not. We can only judge there- 
fore of what God meant to do, by what he has 
done, and it is certain they have ceased for many 
centuries. Whether God recalled these gifts for 
some good purpose of his own, or whether man 
forfeited them by unbelief, I do not know, — for the 
same reason; the Scripture has not declared it. 
If the former, I doubt not God will fully manifest 
his purpose, to restore them when His time is come; 
and I can wait till he does so. If the latter, I must 
have some evidence that the faith of James Mac- 
donald, and Mary Campbell, is more than the faith 
of Luther and Latimer, of saints and martyrs, of 
men of God both dead and living, who, with equal 
zeal and sounder minds, have followed Christ, but 
worked no miracles, before I believe that increase 
of faith has brought back the gifts. 

There is one who says, " If I testify of myself 
my testimony is not true ;" but these people not 
only testify of their own gifts, but give the credit 
of them to their own fanh, which they represent 
to be more than all the faith that has been in ex- 
ercise for sixteen or seventeen centuries. Perhaps 
you will say. " But here are facts, how can you 



140 LETTERS. 

account for the delusion, without supposing wilful 
imposture in the witnesses?" This I cannot, nei- 
ther can I explain how Papal Rome performed her 
well-attested wonders, nor how Joanna Southcote's 
absurdities deluded 40,000 people; nor how Prince 
Hohenlohe made the lame to walk. All must stand 
together till these new miracles have some better 
ground to stand on, than the honest credulity of 
those who think they have witnessed them. Re- 
specting the recoveries, I am not prepared to say 
how far the senses may be the dupes of the ima- 
gination. I have seen enough of this, to believe 
much more; and without a miracle, we see every 
day, the " speculations and anticipations of physi- 
cians," baffled by the recovery of the patient, from 
a seeming death-bed; and that often by no means 
but strong mental excitement. As for the tongues, 
I can imagine nothing easier for man or woman, 
than to utter what neither themselves nor any one 
else can understand. And the Chinese characters! 
I have been told there are 8000 in the language ; 
she must be an unlucky wight indeed, who could 
not hit upon something like some of them; parti- 
cularly if she is familiar with the outside of a chest 
of tea. I must really wait the interpretation of 
their tongues, and the use to be made of them, be- 
fore I treat this part as any thing but a gross ab- 
surdity, calculated to discredit all the rest. To 
tell the truth, if the Spirit would constrain some of 
these people to hold their tongues, rather than to 
talk, I should be much more disposed to admit a 



LETTERS 241 

miracle : the gift of silence would be an extraor- 
dinary blessing to the Church at this time. Mr. 
E * * *'s letter is not the writing of a sensible man. 
His talent and piety we all know; and it is sad in- 
deed, that men who have been distinguished in the 
Church, should occupy themselves with turning 
the heads of silly women, by over-excitement of 
their pious feelings. Respecting the young clergy- 
man you speak of as having propounded these 
things from the pulpit, I truly wish he had been 
older. * * * * Till you are forty, dear child — 
which I believe will be some days yet — I entreat 
you to have nothing to do with these things. Be- 
lieve that the Lord is at hand ! Love his appear- 
ing ; watch and pray that you enter not into temp- 
tation ; whether he come at the second watch, or 
the third, be you ready; be sure that you have 
oil in your lamp, and then wait in quietness, till 
the footsteps of our Lord himself arouse you ; but 
if any one say to you, "Lo here ! Lo there !" go 
not after them. 

Caroline Fry. 



142 LETTERS. 



XVII.— TO MRS. FRY. 

Paris, Hotel d'Angleterre. 

Juin 11, 1831. 

My dear Martha, 

My letter has no chance of a welcome, unless it 
comes from Paris, therefore I have not written be- 
fore; and therefore I make haste to write now; 
for we have been long on the road, and do not 
intend to stay here long. The road, indeed, had 
as much interest for me as the capital : all was 
new, all was changed from the moment we set 
foot in France. I was pleased at Havre, and at 
Rouen delighted ; but with nothing more than with 
a delightful passage of ninety miles up the Seine, 
from one place to the other, amidst the most en- 
chanting scenery. However, my brother will lis- 
ten to nothing short of Paris, and I suppose him in 
so much hurry to hear of that, that I must not 
pause to tell you by the w 7 ay, that I am quite well, 
quite happy, too happy almost for this passing 
world. But it is God who has given me all, and 
what he gives, is blessed, is safe, and may be taken 
fearlessly. Well, then, of Paris — what of Paris? 
I think, as a whole, it does not equal my expecta- 
tions ; it does not equal London ; if things so unlike 
may be compared at all. But there are things in 
it which exceed my expectation. As contrasted 
with London, you miss the air of wealth, of studied 



LETTERS. 243 

luxury, niceness, and abundance ; the splendid 
equipages, the magnificent shops, and the crowds 
of well-dressed people. My first impression of the 
streets was of meanness, neglect, and inconve- 
nience. But then where in London do you find 
the picturesque ; here it is everywhere. And the 
public buildings — these exceed my expectation — 
so many, so magnificent, so tasteful. But above 
all things, and most above my imagination, is Pere 
la Chaise. Perhaps I never saw anything that so 
satisfied me. I thought it would be beautiful, but 
artificial: this it is not; it is a forest of tombs; it 
is impossible to give you any idea of what it is; 
art has done all it can, and nature has outdone it. 
Wealth has adorned its sepulchre, and glory re- 
corded its deeds; but the aspect of all is death: — 
the air is still as the grave, wild, ruinous, and ro- 
mantic. I never have seen anything so impres- 
sive. Of much that I have seen w T ith pleasure, 
and shall hereafter be glad that I have seen, per- 
haps this alone I shall think of hereafter with a 
longing wish to return to it. After all its boast- 
ings, Paris derives its chief interest to me, from 
the events with which every part of it is identified ; 
the important past, the overhanging future; every 
street, every palace is historic ground, so closely 
associated with all that one has thought, felt, or 
read, for thirty years past. I never can disunite 
the spot from the deeds that have been done in it: 
and thence feel intense interest everywhere. As 
to all that people find attractive in this vain capi- 



144 



LETTERS. 



tal, I see nothing in it ; I feel not a wish to stay, 
nor a wish to return to it again : though I shall 
always be glad to have seen it. The maniere de 
vivre is pleasing only for its novelty. It is very 
amusing to dine a few times at a table d'hote, and 
taste the savoury varieties of a coffee-house din- 
ner; but it is adverse to the habits, tastes, and 
feelings of our English nature : it is all show, all 
outside, all frivolity and nonsense. And the peo- 
ple — they are so ugly, so unnoble, and withal have 
such ill-shapen heads, I am already tired of the 
sight of them. There is not the slightest appear- 
ance of evil working at present; but it is impossi- 
ble to traverse the courts and galleries of these 
magnificent palaces, without asking one-self w r hat 
murderous deeds are to be done there next. To 
those who think that Bonaparte " is not and yet 
is," there is something very striking in his unfin- 
ished works; the monuments of his greatness 
standing as he left them ; half-built, the scaffolding 
still round them, as if they waited his returning. 
The most exquisite building, to my taste, is St. 
Genevieve, now called the Pantheon, desecrated 
by tombs of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the so-called 
great. We have been to St. Cloud to-day, which 
is really delightful. I suppose nobody will be so 
foolish as to compare the gardens of the Luxem- 
bourg and Tuilleries with the Regent's and Hyde 
Park ; but there is an effect in the artificial alleys 
and close shaven trees, and formal avenues, which 
I did not calculate upon: far enough from the 



LETTERS. 145 

cheerful beauty of our plantations, there is still a 
touch of sublimity in them — dark, gloomy, unna- 
tural, they seem the work of other ages, and of 
other beings: consequently excite more interest 
than I anticipated. This is a poor sketch, written 
in haste, and at random : but we are out all day, 
and tired enough by night. Accept this fare, and 
excuse this unworthy epistle. It is the most I can 
do. Perhaps it is more interesting to you than if 
I had filled it, as I might, with thanks and acknow- 
ledgments for all your kindness, and pleasant re- 
miniscences of Desford festivities. My beloved 
husband cannot forget it, and will not forego the 
wish and hope to visit it again : it has made so 
great an impression. 

Kindest love to my brother, and whoever of the 
party are still about you. You must enjoy, I 
think, a season of tranquillity, after the distraction 
we imposed upon you. Excuse all else. 
Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



13 



246 LETTERS. 



XVIII.-— TO MRS. * * *. 

Keavil, 1832. 

My dearest Friend, 
I think I promised you a letter, and I think you 
wish for one ; if in this last I err, it is a pardona- 
ble offence, since it only assumes that you think of 
me absent, and desire to know what I am doing. 
Indeed, dear, I am doing nothing but enjoying my- 
self, and giving thanks, — wondering thanks, to 
Him who fills my cup so full, and gives me so 
much capability of tasting its sweetness. Thus 
far all has been prosperous with us, and all de- 
lightful; though we have not yet reached the point 
of attraction, the Scottish Highlands. But how 
much there is to delight one everywhere, when 
one is in the mind to be delighted: when no clouds 
without or mists within, obscure the charms of 
nature's prodigality of beauty. I was immoderate- 
ly happy at Cambridge, where 1 had not antici- 
pated much pleasure; with Scarborough, I was, 
as I expected, greatly pleased : we took a lodging 
there for five days, and greatly enjoyed the inter- 
val of repose. Our voyage thence to Edinburgh 
was most favourable ; with the exception of two 
hours, I remained all night upon deck. But Edin- 
burgh — I suppose you have seen it — if not, I shall 
not describe it, partly because I cannot, and part- 
ly because all descriptions are tiresome. Be it 



LETTERS. 



147 



enough, that I lost my senses at the first sight of 
it, and have not quite recovered them. We so- 
journed here six days, and now are staying with 
my beloved friends in Fifeshire. Dear things, it 
is a melancholy pleasure to see them ; and if one 
had not cause enough and sense enough of grati- 
tude before, we well might learn it here ; in com- 
paring our health, and vigour, and cheerful capa- 
city for enjoyment, with the blighted helplessness 
of these sweet loves, who, deprived of much that 
was most dear, have not power to enjoy what is 
left. 

Tobermory, Aug. 2. 
O dear ! I never had time to finish this letter, 
and I found that if I had, I could not tell you when 
we should be in England, so I have carried it in 
my pocket till it is nearly worn out; still I am 
anxious to acquit me of my promise. We have 
had no letters since we left home, having ordered 
them to Glasgow, where we shall not be till next 
Saturday. It is impossible to tell you all we have 
done and seen since I wrote the above. Our jour- 
ney has been most successful throughout; it has 
been without accident or impediment. You know 
Loch Katrine and the Trosachs, and perhaps you 
know the yet greater beauties of Loch Lomond. 
We spent last Sunday in Inverary, the most en- 
chanting of places. We were at StafFa and Iona 
yesterday, and to-morrow really start on our way 
homeward; we think to spend the next Sunday at 



14S 



LETTERS. 



Glasgow: and if we do, I will try to hear your 
favourite Dr. Wardlaw; indeed we have been so 
fortunate as to hear a good sermon everywhere, 
except at Cambridge, the school of divinity. On 
Monday or Wednesday, nothing occurring to pre- 
vent it, we intend to embark for Liverpool. There 
I hope we shall not be detained at all, but proceed 
to Bangor. # # # # 

I do not know what will become of us beyond 
Bangor, we shall probably be tired of moving, and 
stay at some place in Wales till our time is out. 
I do not feel any expectation of meeting with you ; 
but am wishing that at least you should know 
where we are. To accomplish which, we have 
made two attempts to buy a pennyworth of pens, 
the purchase has supplied a stick ; with which I 
finish. The Laird of the place has just been, I do 
not know why, to ask us to dinner ; and at six in 
the morning we start for Oban. All these little 
towns are so pretty, I know not which is best — ac- 
commodations generally good, and conveyances 
procured with facility: supposing you can ride in 
a cart and walk over a mountain. The weather, 
except a little too cold sometimes, has been de- 
lightful, we have not had an hour's hinderance 
from it. * # # 1 must make free to say, no High- 
land lass can better get up a mountain than your 
humble servant. Indeed the air is so exhilarating, 
you gain strength at every mile, instead of losing 
it. Farewell, in haste. If you are in Wales, let 
me hear of it at Liverpool, or at Bangor, should 



LETTERS. 1 4Q 

this letter reach you in time to do so. Tell the 
world of our well-being ; this is my first and only 
letter since I started. 

Ever affectionately, 

C. Wilsoiv. 



XIX.— TO MRS. * * * ' 

January, 1833. 

Dearest Friend, 
It is quite time for another " how d'ye do ;" but 
I have heard that you are well again, else I should 
have inquired before. Lady # * # says you will 
not come and see anybody : so to see you I must 
not hope. It has not appeared practicable for us 
to come to you before going to Bristol, otherwise 
I was not unmindful of your kind wishes on that 
head. Now it seems as if we should go on the 
Saturday of next week, or on the Monday of the 
week following ; and we think to return within a 
fortnight ; if you have anything to send or to say, 
make it ready. We shall of course see Mrs. * * *, 
if she is at home. I dare say you will hear some 

report of our well-being from the S s, who 

have just left our near neighbourhood. Tell me 
of her health, if you know, when you write, for 
I feel really interested about it ; her's is such a 

13* 



] 50 LETTERS. 

dreadful complaint ; I can only wonder how so 
much pain is endured as it is. I do not bear 
bodily pain myself, which makes me feel more for 
others. What a mercy to have none to bear ; that 
is the burthen of my song ; but I do not mean to 
be talking of myself, I must refer to your note to 
talk of you. Dear thing, I understand it all. More 
consciences are stained with "flagrant sin," than 
we know of: and doubtless what you say is true ; 
the stain remains within, when it is blotted from 
the book of heaven, still the sad memory is a cure 
for w T orse things than itself, most bitter as it is. 
It is a perpetual antidote to pride, an ever-ready 
reproof to discontent : a good help to penitence 
and self-renunciation; and above all, it is that 
which, in its very bitterness, makes the heart to 
run over, in its fulness of gratitude for redeeming 
love, and preferential grace. Mr. Howells said, 
if he were to define salvation in few words, he 
would say it was " deliverance from ourselves." 
Now it is when we see ourselves in that abomi- 
nable, detestable light, in which the memory of 
gross transgression places us, that we perceive 
the full value of this deliverance — this salvation. 
When could David have felt it as he did when 
Nathan said to him, " The Lord also has put away 
thy sin." It is true there was a " nevertheless" — 
— which followed — as I believe there generally is 
on sin indulged — a "nevertheless" of temporal 
evil, incident upon it. But how is it lightened still 
by that first sentence, " The Lord has put away 



LETTERS. 



151 



thy sin." This has been written a day or two, 
and never got finished ; never mind. I do not 
think we shall go before Monday. Will you be 
so kind as to give me again the receipt for making 
Scotch woodcock, for some of my former cooks 
took it off with them. 

Ever affectionately yours. 



XX.— TO MRS. * * * 

January, 1833. 

Dearest Dear, 
I should not have treated you with such neglect- 
ful silence, but our Hampstead visit being put off 
and still uncertain, on account of our friend's 
health there, I knew not how to answer you : and 
still I do not know, but hope to do so on my hus- 
band's coming home. I only know now that we 
always like to come to you, and that we have 
some reasons for going out next week, — but this 
hereafter. I am so glad you are better. No, in- 
deed, dearest, I shall not tell you that having 
Christ, and being therefore rich in hope, you can 
want nothing more. I know that when sure, quite 
sure of the pardon of sin, we do want more — w 7 e 
want to be rid of it. Such is the beautiful design 
of God. We are safe in being justified; but we 
are not happy, but in proportion as we are sancti- 



] 52 LETTERS. 

fied ; the former satisfies our fears, but our de- 
sires are restless for the latter. As the former is 
the first act of divine love, it is naturally the first 
thing a believer seeks to be assured of; and when 
he has assured himself of pardon and justification 
in Christ, he very often fancies for a time that he 
has the whole of salvation, and is sanctified. But 
this does not last ; he finds out as you do, that he 
wants more ; he wants holiness and cannot be 
happy without it. But then what a comfort that 
the one is secure as the other, although a slower 
process ; that the same blood which bought our 
justification, and bestows it at once, bought our 
sanctification, — the other half of one and the same 
salvation, — and must bestow it ultimately. This 
is a thought full of gladness when the sense of 
pardoned sin still wearies and torments the con- 
science. For that other source of bitterness, who 
can feel for you as I can ? Who has suffered 
from it intenser anguish ? I am bold enough to 
believe no one. I remember a poem in some late 
number of somebody's magazine, written under a 
temptation like that you speak of, of intensest 
anguish, by reason of unanswered prayer : and 
w T ell it recals to me the agony of the time at which 
I wrote it. Yes, dear, I can feel fully for you; 
but, after the issue of all my own sorrows, can I 
despair for you? I know what Satan whispers 
at such moments ; — either there is no God that 
answers prayer, or that he breaks his promise, or 
that we are not of his children, to whom he made 






LETTERS. 



153 



them. But Satan was a liar from the beginning. 
He used to tell me all this at times, and bid me 
give up the rejected suit. But I used to plead 
these lies before God, as a reason why he should 
vindicate his own truth and glory in disproving 
them ; and I still w r ent on, though sometimes I 
could do no more than pray that I might not give 
up praying. I do not tell you not to grieve; for 
I should have thought ill of one who could have 
told me so : but I do tell you not to despond. I re- 
proach myself now w 7 it!i having done so. — I won- 
der how it was I did not always believe that God 
would hear me ; that I did not always know He 
w r ould grant the prayer at last ; and sometimes I 
think if I had prayed with more confidence and 
assurance, I should perhaps have been heard soon- 
er, for that is an important word, "Whatsoever ye 
ask, believing. I wish we were nearer, that I 
might break your loneliness as you used to break 
mine. How little that w 7 ord has to do with num- 
bers. How lonely I have been, when every hour 
of every day was passed in company— compared 
with now, that the greatest part of all my waking 
time is passed literally alone : though still at times 
I wish it otherwise. 

Our going to Hampshire isjstill postponed, and 
our going to Bristol not likely to be possible be- 
fore this month is out : and my husband does not 
seem to think we can fix to come to you just now. 
Ever affectionately yours. 



|54 LETTERS. 

XXI. TO MRS. * * * 

April, 1833. 

My dearest Friend, 

I am only reconciled to seeing so little of you, 
by the fact that I see as much of you as of any- 
body. Your information disappointed me, inas- 
much as I was in the act of asking you to name a 
day that you could spend with me. I now regret 
that I so long delayed it ; for which the only 
reason was the prolonged coldness. Though I 
knew you might think it worth while to come and 
see me in any weather, I could not like to ask it of 
your party till summer-like evenings should make 
the distance of little consequence, so I waited on, 
and now it is too late ; we are going to town till 
Tuesday; and then you will be gone, — you do not 
say how long. Let me know the first of your re- 
turn, and promise to come before we go from 
home, which, if we can. let our house, will be at 
Midsummer; whether for the Rhine, or Scotland, 
or elsewhere. #######* The book I return 
with thanks and commendations, it is very good. 
As I was going to observe just now, it will give 

the H s much pleasure to see you, and show 

Mr. anything in Bristol he may wish, except 

the manufactory, which is burned down, and which 
was remarkably well worth seeing. I am sorry 
you are ill, dear, but change always does you 
good ; I am a little fretful not to see you. I am 



LETTERS. 155 

rather bustled at last in preparing my book, which 
I shall hope to present to you before you go ; if 
they do not disappoint me. May it be blessed of 
God to the good of somebody, which is my first 
wish about it : for I cannot but recollect that I am 
now receiving much, everyway, and rendering 
very little, except in gratitude and praise. So I 
pray that God's blessing may be continued on my 
works. Thank you, dear, Mr. Wilson has had a 
cold, but is recovered, and I am quite well ; I am 
still susceptible, as I used to be, of cold, taking it 
very often ; but with my general health and spirits, 
it never signifies as it used to do, and is soon over. 
One's ailments are trifles when one is quite happy, 
they seem nothing when I remember how every 
little addition of illness used to overbear me. 

I suppose poor Emma will feel a good deal 

the loss of her child ; it is her first sorrow, which 
usually falls heavy. It may please God to bless it 
to the restoration of her reason : there is nothing 
like a painful reality to dissipate delusions. Fare- 
well, dearest, the peace of God be with you on the 
way. Let me know of your return. 

Ever affectionately yours. 



1 5Q LETTERS. 

XXII.— TO MR. H. * * * 

Blackheath Park, Feb. 30, 1835. 

My dear Sir, 

It gave me the most real pleasure to get a letter 
from you : hearsay reports are never satisfactory, 
and I have thought about you much oftener than 
I have been able to get intelligence. It was very 
thoughtful of you to write yourself. That you are 
already better, gives the fairest promise for the 
future. "Study to be quiet;" — that must be your 
text — and " Hope unto the end." Hope and quiet- 
ness are a compound of wonderful efficacy in the 
cure of diseases, bodily as well as mental. But 
we are such silly children, or as Howels used to 
say, such " fractious brats," that, when w T e cannot 
walk, we do not choose to be carried, and mightily 
fatigue ourselves with kicking. Sickness seems 
to be the one bitter among your many sweets; the 
extent to which you have suffered it amongst you 
is really remarkable; but I am sure you accept it 
as good, and I cannot help thinking of every one, 
that the more suffering they have had, the less 
there is to come, assured that it is strictly mea- 
sured to the necessity, — of course I speak of the 
children of God ; He who is so prodigal of all good 
things, is parsimonious of inflictions where He 
loves. We call our trials much and long, but that 
is in earthly language; — terms will have a very 



LETTERS 



157 



different meaning by and bye; I suppose we shall 
sometimes wonder at the ideas of length and 
greatness we have attached to such mere instants 
of duration endless. I can believe no small part 
of vour trial consists in vour separation from vour 
dear babes: but they are kept for you. Poor 

's is an affliction indeed. All God's people 

must suffer a good deal before they can be fully 
able to administer to the need of others. Thank 
you for all your kind thoughts about us, we are 
all w T ell — always well. It has pleased God to give 
us the sweet and the bitter separately, while others 
have it mixed, so now the land overflows with 
milk and honey ; and what is not always the case, 
I have so much of peace within, together with 
prosperity without, that if it were not for a certain 
earthly remembrance called sin, I might sometimes 
fancy I am gone to heaven ; as it is, I can only 
Frc>pe that heaven has come to me, with some 
bright glimpses of its eternal promises. I have 
been very busy getting a new work to the press, 
and other matters ; I meant it for something to be 
read in families, but my books do not always turn 
out what they are meant to be : and if people pre- 
fer to read it in their beds, which is very likely, I 
cannot help it ; you will hear more of it about the 
1st of May. I must write, whether the world will 
read or not, for mere want of something to do. 
* * * How sad a close of poor Irving's sometime 
brilliant promise! When we think of him as he once 
appeared, " a giant prepared to run his course," 
14 



J58 LETTERS. 

now extinguished in his own darkness, dead in his 
mischief, a blot removed from the Church of Christ 
below, we hope made white in heaven, but unable 
to efface the evil impress of his footsteps here, 
surely it is a lesson ; a warning not to venture on 
unbeaten paths, to walk humbly, simply, safely, in 
the vulgar track, as these spiritual aspirants deem 
it. The first steps in error seem so trifling, so 
little dangerous, — only for the sake of inquiry — 
only for pure love of truth, perhaps for love of 
talk, oftener than anything for love of novelty. 
May not this awful exhibition of the issue, be a 
message from heaven to give notice of that snare, 
the favourite artifice of Satan in this restless age. 
I look upon it that poor Irving was as much the 
victim of his own ambition as ever was hero dead 
on the field of battle. " Let them that think they 
stand, take heed lest they fall." I should like to 
hear from you again; our united kindest love tp 

Mrs. * 

Ever yours sincerely, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 1 59 

XXIII.—- TO MR. H * * * 

Blackheath, Feb. 1, 1836. 
My dear Sir, 
I hear often that you want a long letter, though 
I am at a loss to guess what you want it to be 
about. When I received the pamphlet you were 
so kind as to send me, I thought it might be a chal- 
lenge to a controversy, and read it in expectation 
of finding whereof to doubt and so whereof to 
write ; but as it merely goes to prove that where- 
of I have never doubted, I can only express my 
full approbation of the same. If, as I believe, bap- 
tism is the rite of admission to the external church, 
as circumcision was, I cannot entertain the small- 
est doubt that it should be administered to infants. 
If it were, as I believe it is not, a rite of admission 
to the invisible fold of Christ. I should consider 
the subject farther. But then what am I to write 
about? Of you and yours I should like it to be; 
but then I know nothing at all about you. I never 
see, scarcely hear of you, and so much are we 
apart, we have scarcely a word in common to 
make talk about; and thus there is but one thing 
left to talk of, my own individual self, a subject I 
never liked. Once I thought it intrusive to talk of 
my own sorrows, and now I think it will be sick- 
ening to talk of my own joys. Mistaken perhaps 
in both cases: since it is all one story of Divine 



IftQ LETTERS. 

love and faithfulness. But you at least have learnt 
this story through; you know what it is to be kept 
through storms and sadness, and in the worst of 
times to be enabled to hold fast your faith, and to 
be raised from shipwreck. And you know that in 
the brightest days, amidst flowers and sunshine, 
and all surrounding joys, there is one joy that so 
much exceeds all other, one good so far more pre- 
cious than all the rest; the very light of earth 
seems but as darkness by the side of it; in short, 
I need not tell you, that what in adversity was all, 
in prosperity is all still; yet this is pretty w T ell the 
whole I have just now to say. Year after year 
goes on, and no shadow comes across my path — 
no sickness w 7 ithin my doors, or care within my 
bosom; while the vision of eternity is like an ho- 
rizon that grows clearer and brighter as the calm 
increases; I know it cannot be always thus: and 
whenever a change comes, it will not take me by 
surprise; but while it does not come, let God have 
the praise of his ^measured, ^measurable good- 
ness to the most unworthy. We are looking for- 
ward, though not yet quite with certainty, to a 
change of residence; for one, if it be granted us, 
which will add yet more to my already full cup of 
pleasure ; such a sweet house upon the heath, now 
building, to be ready about Midsummer, a very 
PoeVs spot: which, by the blessing of God upon 
my works, I shall myself be able to furnish and 
complete; then if you do not come and see us, 
you are people of no taste at all. But I wish you 



LETTERS. | Qj 

would not wait for it, but come soon and see what 
it is to be; it is so few years since you furnished, 
perhaps you can give us some hints for conveni- 
ence, and economy, and so on. I should like to 
know how you like your house and neighbourhood, 
with all the etceteras of place. It might be as 
well, by-the-bye, against you want another letter, 
to remind you, that in these days of exchange and 
barter, the surest way to procure a commodity is 
to give an equivalent, — letter for letter; long for 
long ; and short for short. With kind love to your 
happy group, Mrs. H. in particular, 

I am, my dear Sir, ever yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



XXIV.— TO LADY ***** 

Blackheath, April 1, 1836. 



My dear Lady 



I was much pleased to hear from you, though 
you are very bold, methinks, to brave my scorn : 
Not like Hastings ! — monstrous ! That is, you do 
not. like the influenza, and the rain, and the cold. 
I should not wonder if a little sunshine make you 
change your mind. Until the last week, we have 
had incessant wet, with a thermometer scarcely 
above the freezing-point — enough to extinguish all 
difference of place. But I am afraid the secret of 

14* 



1(52 LETTERS. 

your dissatisfaction is in your health ; I have 
known many who cannot be well at Hastings; 
whereupon I intend to forgive you, and very dis- 
interestedly advise you to come home. By the 
way, were you ever anywhere that you did not 
wish to come home? If not, Hastings is acquit- 
ted. I, who love to be abroad, find the desire for 
home returns on every cessation of pleasurable 
excitement; by which I judge that though pleasure 
wanders, happiness stays at home ; for when we 
are most happy, we least desire incitement to plea- 
surable feelings. What these last are to be made 
of, nobody can decide for another; you want a 
little more couleur de rose to mix up yours; my 
farthest remembered pleasure was the earliest 
primrose or the first blown snow-drop ; and by the 
returning strength of these first tastes, I think I 
must be near upon my second childhood. I have 
delayed my letter some days, because I wanted to 
tell you we are beginning to move. * * * What 
children we are ; six months ago, I thought I was 
too happy to want any thing; two months later. I 
took to wanting that house, and have been teazed 
and troubled about it ever since; so wise it is to 
let our hearts go after the things that do not sig- 
nify ! Rain, rain, no hope for Hastings; but, how- 
ever dirty you find it, I can assure you, though I 

have not been there, you will find dirty also. 

Hail, and snow, and storm : this is our portion as 
well as yours, without the waves for compensa- 
tion. I ought to write you a budget of news, but 



LETTERS- 2(33 

we do not gossip in these parts, and know nothing 
about any body. The only thing I am sure of, is 
that I shall be glad to see you back. I am afraid 
your poor child will scarcely have found her flow- 
ers. No doubt, you are going on upon a rather 
rough road. I should not, as you know, have been 
acted upon as you were, for the very thing that 
moved you disgusted me ; but I think it very likely 
that change and interruption would have done the 
child more harm than can result from continuance 
for another year; which, if you think so, will re- 
concile you to many disagreeables. * * * * * * * 
Come, here is more news than I thought of, pro- 
vided you did not know it all before. Have you 
not found it very difficult to write one letter to a 
person, though very easy to write a dozen ; just as 
persons who meet seldom know not how to make 
talk, while those who live together are always 
talking. On this account, society would be better 
if we saw fewer people, and saw them oftener — ■ 

would it not? I can only inform Mrs. S , that 

her house has not disappeared ; the green palisades 
went down and came up again yesterday. I can- 
not guess when you will get this letter, because it 
is too full for postage ; but observe, that I finish it 

this 1st day of April, and am, my dear Lady , 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson, 



154 LETTERS. 

XXIV.— TO MISS * * * 
My dear young Friend,* 

# # # * # The impression you have received, 
and the resolution you have come to, are, I trust, 
of God ; and if they are, He will confirm and bless 
them to your abundant happiness now, and to your 
everlasting joy. The disposition to religion I ob- 
serve in all of you, is very pleasing to me. Still 
more pleased shall I be to know, it has become the 
" one thing" for which you live, (and it alone is 
worthy) on which you set your heart, and from 
which you seek your happiness. For, believe me, 
dear, what by experience you cannot perhaps have 
learned; the differences between the godly and 
the ungodly; the believing and the unbelieving; 
the regenerate, and the unregenerate, are not 
shades, but contrasts ; not parallel or intersecting, 
but continually diverging paths. To enter and to 
tread the narrow, but joyous way of life, needs 
only such a determination as you express; but it 
does need it. May yours, dear girl, be true and 
permanent; and do believe, that if ever, on that 

* The letters, of which the following are extracts, were 
written to a young- lady of considerable talent, and of an im- 
aginative character — but displaying", with great anxiety, to 
learn the way of truth and peace, some morbid feelings on 
the subject of religion, and erroneous views of the duties it ' 
enjoined. 



LETTERS. Ig5 



subject, I can afford you light or help, or comfort, 
it will not be put to the account of idle gossip or 



scribbling. 



March 17, 1838. 

* # # Jf angels in heaven rejoice over every 
soul recovered, can it be that there should not be 
joy in the heart of one — unworthy, and of herself 
incapable, when allowed to perceive that she has 
been in any measure the medium of renovating 
grace. If my young friend remembers how dear to 
Jesus must be the souls of his redeemed: and how r 
dear to me should be all that is dear to Him ; it will 
not require more words to convince her, that her's 
was a welcome letter. I can confidently commit 
her to Him, who wall not leave to unfruitfulness 
his own engrafted bud, or let its fair promise fail. 
Every station has its peculiar duties; every indi- 
vidual his peculiar gifts; there is not one so lowly 
or so ill-endowed, she cannot do something for the 
love and service of her Redeemer God ; nor one 
so high and gifted, that she may be excused for 
thinking anything her own, that she should with- 
hold it from Him. And why is that imperious 
yoke so easy, that burthen of obligation so light, 
so blessed? because it comes of love, and is 
achieved by love; Jesus claims it, as the requi- 
tal of his love to us, and receives it as the offering 
of our love to Him. But there is more in it than 



166 



LETTERS. 



this: if there was not, that which you contemplate 
as difficult, would be impossible alike, to you and 
me. 

In that blessed Redeemer's service, not one 
thing is required, that is not first bestowed; not a 
service for which strength is not given, nor a 
grace that has not been promised. We serve a 
Master, who gives us all for nought: and we re- 
pay him only with his own. Whatever God 
requires of you, ask of Him; and for knowledge 
of what He requires, ask Him; and for the will to 
do it, ask Him ; and for the love that sweetens all 
we do. The teaching of His Spirit and His word, 
will be more to my young friend, than any thing 
/could tell her, who know only what they have 
taught me. The distance between us, that she 
thinks so great, is only this. I have had time to 
prove and know, and whet she has called upon 
simply to believe, — the sufficiency, the all-suf- 
ficiency of Christ for time and for eternity. I 
would exhort her to lose no time in trying Him, 
to waste no years in bargaining for the cost, or 
in tampering with her blessedness, by unwhole- 
some compromise, and wearisome indecision . . . 
I am glad to think how short is the time in which 
she has 'done nothing.' If the gift of one heart 
be more acceptable to Jesus than another, it must 
be that which is given to Him, before it is seared 
and indurated in the service of this ungodly world ; 
and if there is one child of God more blessed than 
another, it is that one, who has not to look back 



LETTERS. 



167 



on wasted years and mis-spent feelings, or for- 
ward to the conflict, with earth-bound affections, 
and long-indulged sins. . . . May our Heavenly 
Father, who has so early set His name upon her, 
bless her abundantly with the hallowed influences 
of his Spirit, that she bring forth fruit a hundred- 
fold, to His great glory, and the happiness of those 
around her. I shall "thank my God on every 
remembrance" of her, and I desire to be con- 
sidered her affectionate friend, &c. 



I would have you, while you thank God for the 
measure of grace, that made you distressed on 
that occasion, bear in mind what is said in scrip- 
ture, of those whose heart condemns them in what 
they do. The evil of all these worldly amuse- 
ments and compliances, is difficult to tell, but 
easy enough to feel As a voluntary act, it is 
taking part with the adversary of your soul, 
against Him who you say is "for you." If He 
is forybr.you, my dear young friend, protecting 
you from evil without, and struggling with you 
against the evil within, is it not ungenerous, 
unthankful, to throw your own weight into the 
opposing scale? To go, where the thoughts of 
Him must leave you, where your love for Him 
must be chilled, where your mind is unfitted for 
prayer at night, and disabled from devotional ser- 
vices the next day; and the imagination filled, for 



2 (3S LETTERS. 

days and weeks, with unholy images, with which 
the thought of Him cannot, must not be inter- 
mingled ! We deal not thus with earthly loves, 
and I trust and believe the time will come, when 
you will refuse these things, not because you may 
not, but because you cannot thus tamper, with the 
grace and mercy of one, who did not tamper, who 
did not calculate how small a sacrifice would do, 
or how little obedience would be accepted of the 
Father, when He gave Himself up for you. Yet, 
this is the way we all set out, when we begin or 
mean to begin, to give ourselves to Him. It is 
" May I not just do this?" "Am I obliged to do 
that ?" " What ! give up all V 9 " Let me first bury 
my father," &c. 

O my friend, it is pitiful work, which you will 
one day weep over, with mingled love and shame, 
that your Lord should so long have borne with 
and forgiven it. But He does bear with and for- 
give it all, and if His forbearing pity will not 
shame you out of it, I know that the terror of His 
commandment will not, and therefore I am not 
afraid to tell you, that the way to overcome the 
world, and resist the temptation of the flesh, is to 
increase your faith, to increase your love to Him 
whom that world has crucified, and for whose 
sake that world must be crucified to you, and you 
to it. Do not make resolutions, and weigh out 
words and actions as Papists count their beads, 
and fret your spirit to know when you have done 
enough. This is the service of the natural heart, 






LETTERS. 



169 



adverse in all things to the mind of God, — the 
heart that loves sin, while God loves holiness; 
and is for ever busied in the adjustment of adverse 
interests. Try rather to love what he loves, to will 
what he wills, to choose what he chooses ; and de- 
light in what he approves. This is the subjection 
of a child. To this end pray much for the increase 
of your faith ; and avoid only such things as unfit 
you for earnest heart-felt prayer. Think much of 
the sacrifice, the life and death of Christ, and give 
up only those pursuits, that preoccupy and indis- 
pose your mind to such reflections. Read much 
— of the Bible most; but of other religious books 
also; and abstain from such occupations as make 
this impracticable or distasteful. Above all things, 
try, pray, labour to increase your love ; for love is 
the fulfilling of the law. If you ask me how? why, 
we know how earthly love is begotten and en- 
couraged. Not by determining to love, but by 
thinking, speaking, hearing, of the One beloved; 
of what He is; of what he has done; of what He 
offers or promises to do for us or to be to us ; — of 
the qualities that deserve our love, and the benefits 
that have earned it of us: Such love will settle 
many difficulties in point of conduct, by closing 
our ears against all who would depreciate the 
object of our affections and our hearts; against 
all that w r ould be likely to weaken or divert these 
from Him. 

Try then in this manner to increase your love. 
May He, who only can, give you grace and power 
15 



170 LETTERS. 

to make the attempt honestly, and all the rest will 
follow. Make the tree good, and the fruit will be 
good. Beseech Him to take your heart, and then 
you will freely give him up the sinful cares and 
pleasures of this poor passing w 7 orld. With Chris- 
tian interest in your welfare, &c. 



Your trouble about prayer is common to all 
Christians. A mournful evidence of our fallen, 
perverted, helpless, senseless nature — a ground of 
deepest self-abasement and self-abhorrence, not of 
discouragement, or despondency, or distrust of 
Him who is touched with the feeling of our infir- 
mities, and does for us all we cannot do for our- 
selves — who maketh intercession for us 

Christians, I apprehend, the most advanced, are 
not without the same difficulties, as to what they 
ought to do, or rather ought to think and feel un- 
der certain circumstances; and whether what they 
actually do feel is right or wrong; and they can 
do no better than you did— throw themselves on 
the grace and sympathy of One who knows all; 
how much is sin, and how much is infirmity, how 
much is to be forgiven ; and how much is only an 
added claim to paternal pity and support. Fare- 
well now, and may the God of peace and love be 
ever with you, and deal with you according to his 
great goodness. How great it is, if ever we 
know, will be the most amazing of all disclosures! 



LETTERS. J71 

In Him, and for His sake, consider that you have 
a friend, of whom you may ask anything she may 
be able to impart. 



These feelings are not peculiar to yourself, 
though perhaps peculiar to individuals of your cha- 
racter and temperament. Remember at such mo- 
ments who it is, that is at your elbow; and in 
whose strength you, even you, may overcome his 
suggestions; and be thie stronger for having known 
what it is to " endure temptation." You recollect 
who it was that said, " Get thee behind me, Satan !" 
Give the same answer, and his power is gone. 
Don't fancy you are the only child of light that 
passes through hours of darkness. A perpetuity 
of joy and peace, is the hard-won victory, (if ever 
it be attained on earth) of many hard-fought fields 
and vanquished enemies, aye, and many wounds 
received, and battles lost — efforts foiled, and ex- 
pectations shamed; you cannot have them yet; 
but accept with gratitude and confidence every 
interval of such accorded you. God knows when 
to send the rain, and when the sunshine; you must 
have both in spring-time, if you would have fruits 
in Autumn. "Remember that we are but dust!" 
is the prayer I say the oftenest ; I know moments 
when it is my best comfort to believe, that some- 
body I know not is offering prayers on my behalf. 
You are afraid you may have given offence. I 



1 72 LETTERS. 

wish you to believe that this cannot happen, and 
therefore need never be calculated upon. It is a 
very common thing, my child, for persons of a ner- 
vous and sensitive temperament, to fancy that peo- 
ple do not like them, — that they misjudge them — 
are unkind to them; when nothing of the sort 
really occurs. I have suffered so much from this 
through my whole life, (being only relieved from 
it in a measure now, by not so much caring whe- 
ther folks like me or not, possessed as I am — for 
this world and the next — of happiness, that man- 
kind can neither give nor take away,) that I can 
assure you, that nine times out of ten, these are 
mere fancies; and for the tenth, it does not become 
a miserable sinner, to be over tenacious, since 
nobody can think so ill of us as we deserve, make 
what mistakes they may upon particular points. 
If they knew as much of us as we know of our- 
selves, would they bear with us at all? We may 
believe generally that a wish to please will be suc- 
cessful ; but it is absolutely indispensable to our 
own peace of mind, to be satisfied with the con- 
scious intention, without a too watchful anxiety 
about the results. The former may be the growth 
of love to our fellow-creatures, and should be cul- 
tivated as such ; the latter, I apprehend, is more 
nearly allied to self-love, a source both of sin and 
suffering. It has been so to me, and therefore I 
tell it you. Do you know a beautiful work of 
Fenelon's, entitled "Lettres SpiritueHes"? there 
are excellent remarks in it, on this and other simi- 



LETTERS. 173 

lar subjects, that would be useful to you. In the 
meantime, my dear child, put your intercourse 
with me beyond all such questions. It had no 
other origin, but the expectation that my expe- 
rience might help your inexperience; and my bet- 
ter knowledge of the human heart, might help you 
to understand and direct your own. Farewell 
now, may God direct, bless, and sanctify you, 
always. 



I believe you are wrong in thinking, that you 
dwell too much on the promises. The promises 
of the Gospel are not to find us consistent Chris- 
tians, but to make us such. In all examples of our 
Lord's teaching, the promises come first. They 
did so in Eden; they did so in his own Sermon on 
the Mount. Peace was the announcement of his 
birth, Peace was the last behest of his departure. 
At the time that you dw r elt exclusively on the pro- 
mises, suited as they were exactly to the then con- 
dition of your soul, I apprehend that you acted 
under the Spirit's guidance. That same Spirit 
may now tell you, it is time to act, as well as feed 
upon these precious truths ; do not distrust His 
teaching. 



I don't know if I ever asked you, what sort 
of reading you indulge in? Your metaphysico- 

15* 



174 



LETTERS. 



poetical head might happen to like what would be 
exceedingly bad for you. I know by experience 
that the poetical may not feed on poetry, nor the 
metaphysical on metaphysics. The existence of 
evil in the presence of Omniscient goodness, is a 
subject that has puzzled all heads, but those that 
were too wise to knock themselves against it. 
You must absolutely not think about it, nor read 
about it, or about anything of the sort. Repeat 
the Psalmist's words, " I am not high-minded, I do 
not occupy myself with things too hard for me." 
Fare you well now, my dear child ; be fearless and 
commit yourself to God ; wait the manifestation of 
his purposes, resting yourself in hope ; you do not, 
you cannot, know yet how good he is. Shall we 
ever know ? 

Let me persuade you, at this season, not to write 
or read, as far as you can help it, — not even to 
think, overmuch; and not to use long and forced 
exercises of devotion, all equally detrimental in 
your present state of health. As many flowers as 
you like, whether lilies of the field, or lilies of the 
garden, or any other of God's works; which, next 
to his word, are most w 7 holesome study, nay, to 
some minds, at some seasons, they are more so. 

Now I hope I shall not offend a sensitive young 
lady such as you are ; by calling you what in this 
instance I cannot but think you show yourself to 
be; a foolish and unreasonable child. You are 
twenty-two, or thereabouts; the Sun of righteous- 
ness has barely risen upon you, begirt with mists 



LETTERS. 



of ignorance, inexperience, disquietude, to say the 
least; and you talk of having "nothing to do but" 
to do that, my child, which, if you number three 
times two and twenty years, you will not have 
done; but instead of sitting down in despair at 
your own failure as now, you will be amazed and 
thankful for any measure of success. Come now, 
listen, and I will tell you how it is with you; for it 
is a plainer case than you ever made out to me be- 
fore. You are trying to heal yourself; you are 
impatient of the great Physician's slowness; and 
instead of waiting upon his sure, impalpable, and 
often imperceptible medicaments, you charge him 
with failure or refusal, and betake yourself to nos- 
trums of your own. Shall I tell you what you are 
like? Why, for all the world, like to certain 
country people, who being taken in ague or 
typhus, — no brief disease, as they might know, if 
they were wiser, — on the first return of the hot fit 
or the cold fit, decide that the quinine or the bark 
are useless; and betake themselves to the " wise 
woman/' for a charm to be rid of all at once. 
Yes, dear, and there is a conjurer always ready 
to take the Great Physician's cases out of his 
hands; and profess to do by miracle, what He, 
with power supreme, hardly does in a whole life- 
time; a long struggle against the inborn disease of 
a body dying, and a soul once dead in trespasses 
and sins. I know not who — unless the aforesaid 
conjurer set you upon attempting the keeping of 
Lent after the manner you have hinted ; the entire 



176 LETTERS. 

cause I doubt not of your subsequent depression ; 
and enough to cause it in a less nervous and irrita- 
ble temperament than yours. I don't believe that 
unbelief either past or present has had anything to 
do with this, in the way of origination; but believe 
me, it is not of the good Physician's prescription, 
— this that you have been taking. He never bade 
you to sit up late and rise early, and exhaust your 
body, and stimulate your brain, by extraordinary 
exercises of prayer and meditation. It was short, 
the prayer He dictated — " after this manner pray 
you." It was simple, the remedy He proposed : 
" As Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, 
so must the Son of man be lifted up, that whoso- 
ever believeth on Him should not perish, but have 
everlasting life." You want quietness and simpli- 
city and child-like confidence and expectation. 
You require to let yourself alone, to renounce 
yourself and forget yourself, while you fix your 
eye on Christ, the author and finisher alike. You'll 
win no race, by counting your own steps, and 
watching the stones you stumble over; men win 
by looking at the goal. Dear child, you are born 
in iniquity, conceived in sin, the whole head is 
sick, the whole heart is faint, there is no good thing 
in you. You know r nothing, you deserve nothing, 
you are worth nothing. Are you content 1 Then 
throw yourself into your Father's arms, and leave 
your cure with Him, and trust his promises, and 
wait his time. Moses kept sheep for Jethro, for 
forty years after he was appointed the deliverer of 



LETTERS. 177 

his people. Joseph lay seven years, guiltless, in 
Pharaoh's prison, before he sat next him upon his 
throne. Abraham had only a burying-place in the 
land of promise. Did God not keep his word with 
all three? And so He wall with you, in His time, 
not in yours. He must both mix and administer 
the drugs, and if they be slow and bitter, you must 
lie still, and quiet yourself as a weaned child. You 
think too much about your symptoms, I mean spi- 
ritually, which must always make a hypochondriac, 
physically or spiritually. . . . And you forget 
that it is not for the ore to tell the refiner, when 
the dross is burned out of it. ... I will pray for 
you, but I will not ask what you bid me, I will not 
ask that the new-born babe in Christ may start at 
once into a perfect manhood, and be forthwith put 
into possession of its inheritance. I will ask, that 
it be nursed with tenderness, and humored, and 
corrected, and controlled ; fed with milk, quieted in 
its tears, borne with in its petulance, and protected 
in its helplessness, until it gain strength to fight 
(like a true soldier of Jesus Christ, clad in the 
whole armour of God) its own w 7 ay, through hosts 
of vanquished enemies, to the throne, where the 
Captain of our salvation has fought his way before 
us. I close in haste, and have said what I meant 
imperfectly. Remember, that "in returning and 
rest, shall be your safety; in quietness and confi- 
dence shall be your strength." 



17S LETTERS. 

Such reading as this work of Luther's is very 
good for you. Convictions deep as yours; such 
perceptions of the profundity of nature's darkness, 
are only to be reached by the strongest lights, the 
deepest truths, the highest, fullest privileges of the 
gospel. It is only by the truth of its doctrines, 
that any soul can be saved, but every soul has not 
the like consciousness of their necessity. Many a 
one has been saved by the electing love, and jus- 
tifying righteousness of Christ, without experimen- 
tal evidence, that they could not be saved in any 
other manner; such as others have had, who feel 
that they must receive these truths or die. For 
you, dear child, who are, I conceive, among the 
latter, it is most necessary that you should have a 
clear, distinct perception, of the perfectness as 
well as pricelessness of Christ's work : so that you 
may have done with yourself altogether, and be 
absorbed in Him. . . . Coldness would be no cold- 
ness, if we could feel the absent warmth ; darkness 
no darkness, if we could see through it. Wait it 
away; trust it away; believe it away: that is, 
wait, trust, abide in faith, till it is gone. Sit in 
darkness submissively, patiently, hopefully, till 
you see light. You know the promise, " Who is 
among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth 
the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness 
and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the 
Lord, and stay him upon his God." If you can- 
not see, if you cannot feel, this is the time for trust. 
And of one thing you may be sure — as long as 



LETTERS. 



170 



you receive any single message from God : as 
long, that is, as you find in Holy Writ any word 
that suits you, that meets your case, or calls to 
you by any name, or appeals to you under any 
character, to which you can answer as your own 
— God has not done with you, has not fprsaken 
you, though His face may be hidden for many 
moments, and His comforting presence with- 
drawn. . . . But now we are upon this subject, 
believe this, dear child, she you speak of is not 
too proud to value human testimony : she is too 
humble, I think she is, to be exalted by it ; for she 
is one who carries by her temperament, so great 
a weight of sin, the utmost inflation of the b eath 
of praise, could not more than suffice to keep her 
head above w T ater ; besides, to borrow a less grave 
figure from your last, people who remind us of our 
" talents," are little else than duns, calling for ever 
for payment of our debts. And as to the use 
made of them, the good we have done with them, 
alas ! my child, there is one at least, who can bless 
God, and does with all her heart, for every the 
least mention of it that reaches her ears; — she 
needs it all to keep her heart up, and enable her 
to do any thing. Christians who rest all their 
hope of commendation at the last, upon that sweet 
gentle word, "Let her alone, she has done what 
she could," are not likely to grow high-minded. 
Once established in the truth, that all our powers 
are debts, not riches, and we can no longer be in 



180 



LETTERS. 



danger of undue exaltation, by either the posses- 
sion or the use of them. 



The book is gone to press, and will or may 
come forth in March. It is called " Christ our 
Law," and will suit a little lady very well, I dare 
say : taking her prepossessions into the account. 
I wish the Giver of all grace may give her so 
much, as to take all the comfort of its doctrines to 
herself: then they will indeed be enough, and she 
may take them, — of that I have no doubt; all may 
take them who can love them, choose them, de- 
light in them, submit to them, for that is nature's 
difficulty after all. It is not the exaltation, but 
the abasement, of the creature, that is really re- 
sisted in the gospel-scheme. There is no hum- 
bling like that of consenting to be nothing, desiring 
to be nothing, liking to be nothing, that Christ may 
be all in all ; but then we expect by union with 
Him, to become everything in Him ! Pure as he 
is pure, holy as he is holy, happy as he is happy. 



My new work, (Christ our Law) is just out. If 
you read it with attention you may discover, that 
the case in which you suppose yourself, is an im- 
possible case; the position in which you contem- 
plate yourself, an impossible position, which no 



LETTERS. 



181 



one ever did or can in this world occupy. God 
has laid no " perfect rule down before you," by 
which your salvation is to be won or lost. He 
has not "denied" you "the liberty of choosing" 
life rather than death. What you call the neces- 
sity of your nature to desire, is, in fact, what no 
one naturally does desire, and if you do, it is not 
of nature but of grace, a strong evidence, that He 
has " chosen you." The fact is, my child, you 
neither are nor can be lost, by virtue of your de- 
scent, and therefore cannot be called upon to con- 
sent thereto. If you are lost at all, it is because 
you deserve it, by actual not original sin, and be- 
cause you refuse to accept the only remedy pro- 
vided for either, the sure and- priceless remedy for 
both .... You destroy your peace, and your 
soul's health, by metaphysics. " Read my book," 
as Abernethy used to say to his patients, and try 
to become as a little child, that you may enter into 
rest ; there is no other way. Seriously, you speak 
nothing but the truth when you say, that your 
" mind is overrun with fallacies, you see nothing 
rightly." The Spirit of God will be your better 
teacher, but he uses means, and I need not affect 
modesty in saying that " my book" may throw 
some light upon your mind, being written with the 
express intent of disentangling the thread of divine 
truth for the benefit of the simple. 



16 



132 LETTERS. 

Who, and what is your habitual ministry? 
Don't neglect any opportunity of hearing the gos- 
pel preached. It is God's specially appointed 
way, both to convert and to sustain, to heal and 
to mature, and I don't know anybody to whom it 
would be so likely to be essentially beneficial, as 
yourself .... Be sure I shall not blame you for 
excessive reading. It is exactly what I advise for 
your character of mind. Nothing is so bad for 
you as dwelling exclusively upon some one — or 
some few— trains of thought and feeling. 

I differ from Miss S's opinion (with regard to 
the distribution of Tracts) wholly, as it regards 
the poor, though but partially as it regards well- 
educated youth. The last may be induced to take 
up more solid reading — the first cannot. The 
mental powers of the latter are in our hands to be 
strengthened or weakened by the aliment we sup- 
ply; those of the former are not so. We must 
give them what they understand, or they will take 
in nothing. Tracts for the poor, are not on the 
same ground as novels for the rich, but as story- 
books for children, which nobody in their senses 
w 7 ould think of prohibiting. . . . God never enjoins 
any more than he imposes; an hour's, nay a mo- 
ment's bodily suffering, unless to a further benefi- 
cial end, any more than a physician gives a 
draught, because it is nauseous, or prescribes an 
indulgence because it is agreeable. What he does 
not for us, we may not do for ourselves. For 
admitting that our Heavenly Father may some- 



LETTERS. Jg3 

times send pain and privation, merely as a punish- 
ment, without a further end ; (which yet as to his 
children may be questioned,) it is wholly out of our 
province to imitate him there; no man is at liberty 
to punish himself, or do penance for past sin. 
With regard to fasting, there are scriptural rea- 
sons, why it should not be spoken against; but 
practically I cannot give an opinion with regard 
to it, as I never fast, simply for this reason, spoken 
out of a heart, honest I believe in its own desire 
after the increase of spiritual affections, the subju- 
gation of its sins, and the entire conformity of its 
whole being to the mind and will of God ; — I never 
fast, because I never find the occasion when my 
soul could be benefited by doing so ; when my de- 
votions would not be more hindered than helped 
by it, and my mind more dulled than cleared by 
abstaining from customary food ; and I consider 
that fasting is intended as a means to an end, and 
should never be used as an end itself. Where in- 
deed it is found to be a furthering and help to the 
growth of the divine life in the soul; where it 
leaves the mind more able and more disposed to 
spiritual exercises, and detaches the heart from 
earth and self; to lift it up to God in prayer, 
praise, and high and holy intercourse with Him — 
in that case fasting is a righteous act to a most 
righteous end — to any extent, not injurious to the 
body's health ; for this I believe to be never de- 
signed or permitted of God. 



184 



LETTERS. 



I consider that all persons careful for the truth 
of God, should bestow their support on the evan- 
gelical societies, and withdraw it from those 
Societies which are suspected of Tractarian influ- 
ence, for they will be true to their principles, if we 
be not to ours. — As to submission to clerical au- 
thority, against your judgment, I say " Not for a 
moment." Call no man master upon earth in the 
concernments of the soul ; whether of your own 
or others. Then as to your deeper, nearer, and 
more vital interest, my dear child, the evidences 
of the new life within you, — which you say are all 
you have, — are all you want, — is not one in parti- 
cular God's own evidence; — that I mean, which 
he has specifically chosen, " Because ye love the 
brethren V 9 



I remember, early in our correspondence, ad- 
vising you not to read metaphysical books, or to 
discuss metaphysical doctrines, and now I press on 
you more earnestly than ever that advice. I 
would have you put the subject of your difficulty 
quite away, as beyond your reach and quite unfit 
for the peculiar character of your mind, rather 
than try to satisfy yourself upon it. " If any man 
would be wise, let him become a fool that he may 
be wise," — is a precept good for all ; but where 
there is a natural disposition to cavil and object, it 
is peculiarly indispensable to the study of divine 



LETTERS, 1S5 

truth. Believe, submit, obey, without questioning, 
is, I am perfectly certain, your safety and your 
peace; the simple acquiescence of a little child, in 
an authority it may not doubt, on subjects that it 
cannot comprehend. It is likely that time will re- 
move your painful doubts, if not, submission will 
take out the sting; they are not so unusual as you 
suppose, but have been aggravated in your case 
by the circumstance that you have lived too much 
alone, menially at least, and thought too much by 
yourself and of yourself; I don't mean in the sense 
of self-love, but of self occupation and seclusion. 
Now, I do advise you, to do, think, feel, and seem, 
as much like other people as you can : in religion 
especially, try rather to be common-place than 
curious; take the plain letter and abide therein, 
and God, I do not doubt, will give you light and 
peace. It is not necessary to understand God; it 
is necessary to believe Him and adore ! . . . Mean- 
time, without the said key, be not too sure which 
of us two understands your mind the best, or is 
least disposed to blame you for that which has 
sorely tried it. I think I do understand you; I 
only want you to learn to understand yourself. 



Now to your kind inquiries, I have only to an- 
swer, Quite well ; a grateful word it should be to 
all who can so say. I am sorry that you speak of 
"troubles:" — yet who has them not? and who 

10* 



l$Q LETTERS. 

should desire not to have them? Assuredly not 
pilgrims and strangers, who seek a better country, 
but are terribly disposed to sit down and rest 
themselves, on any pleasant spot they come to by 
the way, till some rude impulse comes from be- 
hind, to drive them forward — Is it not so? It has 
been necessary or rather right, that we 
$ #######. # 

This was a sore message from the All-w 7 ise dis- 
poser, when it reached me first. Yet so beau- 
tifully does our Father win his wayward chil- 
dren to the w ? ay he means them to take, that in a 
little while we have become more than reconciled 
to the change. May it be so with you, dear 
child, the stern realities of life will make you per- 
haps less a poet; but it is possible that they will 
make you also by so much the happier. Wise, 
most wise, loving, always loving, amid the chang- 
ing phases of providence, is He who rules over 
all. My child, you need not be afraid, " He will 
do, as he has done," but He does not require that 
you do not grieve. Where is the benefit of ad- 
versity, if it be not felt? What are the gains of 
chastisement that is not grievous? Remember 
all, feel all, and yet consent to all; you are, I be- 
lieve, about five or six and twenty; that is a long 
time; a large portion of three-score and ten, to 
live at ease in luxury and love, supposing that it 
ends there. But it will not do so; a few days of 
storm, a few long wintry nights, losses, pains, se- 
parations, and there will be time left still for half 



LETTERS 1$7 

a life of domestic peace and love, when He who 
takes, thinks fit to give again. Take hope as 
well as gratitude in aid of submission for your 
support, under the really great trial that is upon 
you now, which those who know more of life 
than you do, will not be likely to under-rate on 
your behalf. 

" Any thing," you* say, " may be borne for a 
time," and nothing is borne for more than a time; 
not only is this true of the universal limit of all 
sorrow, but it is true of all feeling, in its own na- 
ture; it wears itself out, and the greater its poig- 
nancy the shorter its duration. If it were not so, 
there are feelings, that would very soon come to 
be not felt at all, for the physical capability would 
fail. If God take away much; if He empty you 
of all else, it is only to fill you with himself. 
Take courage; be hopeful, be confiding, and don't 
quarrel with yourself, because you are not a block 
of stone ! 



188 LETTERS. 



XXVI.— TO MRS. *****. 

1838. 

My dear Friend, 

It was much pleasure to *us, to receive both 

your own letter and Miss 's precious one ; to 

hear first that you had reached your home in 
peace; and now that the promise of recovery is 
confirmed. The very thought of your trials makes 
us ashamed of having thought any thing of our 
own; but the light weight and the heavy one, are 
proportioned by the same hand ; and fitted to the 
strength that is to bear them. I never had reason 
to think my precious husband's life in danger; 
though in the multitude of my sad thoughts upon 
my bed, it sometimes would occur, that I might 
never see my pretty home again. Still I never 
really thought the complaint dangerous, so, what 
were my cares to yours? If your present happi- 
ness and gratitude are in equal proportion, as I 
doubt not, you must feel that indeed. I am so 
habitually persuaded that evil, greater or less, 
never overtakes the child of God, but as a mes- 
sage from the Most High, I go naturally in the 
smallest reverse into investigation of the cause, if 
so I may find out the cipher by which the mes- 
sage can be read. Doubtless all Christians do the 



LETTERS. 289 

same, and by the Spirit's help are led to judge 
themselves aright; mine was a gentle hint; I wish 
to understand and take it, that there be no neces- 
sity to speak louder. Yours, my dear friend, 
spake fearfully, and perhaps you have deciphered 
it aright. It is so common a mistake, that whilst 
vanity of vanities is written on all besides, and we 
should be ashamed to set much value on riches, 
or beauty, or high station for our children, learn- 
ing and talent have been exempted from that sen- 
tence; and may be pursued without risk, and 
coveted without restraint. But whoever thinks 
so, will be sometime undeceived. Every good 
gift of God has its value, and it is equally a mis- 
take, to suppose that the lesser gifts are to be 
despised or undervalued ; but greater or lesser, 
the things of earth are earthy, and may not be 
too anxiously coveted or eagerly pursued. If 
beauty lasts but a season, learning serves us but a 
season more, and both may be blighted in a day. 
There is no doubt your dear child will recover 
her mental, together with her bodily powers; and 
you will take graciously the parental warning; 
neither to overtask her powers, nor to regret that 
she is not able to do more. You have fair pro- 
mise of a great blessing in them, if they grow up 

as they are now I feel it is useless 

now to talk of seeing you here, as we so fully an- 
ticipated to have done before this time ; still you 
will keep it in mind ; and like an honest woman, 



IQO LETTERS. 

let us know when you are able to discharge your 
just debts. 

Very affectionately yours, 

c. w. 



XXVII.—TO LADY ****** 

The Windmills, Blackhealh, 

Dec. 19, 1839. 

Dear Madam, 

If you were well acquainted with the habits of 
our excellent friend, you would not be uneasy for 
the safety of your letter. It is not the first time I 
have received a similar " writ of discovery/' and 
generally can do no more than assure my appellant, 
that Mrs. never answers letters. In this oc- 
casion I am happy to have procured from her an 

acknowledgment that Lady 's letter is in a 

drawer, which will be looked over, and that she 
will communicate to you the result: for which 
last, however, I decline to be her sponsor. This 
lady, like many other valuable things, is a curiosity. 
Though living in near neighbourhood, and entire 
friends, I have not seen her for a twelvemonth. I 
leave her to make her own apology ; but feel 
obliged to an incident that has procured me the 
favour of your Ladyship's letter. The subject is 



LETTERS. HJ\ 

one on which I feel deeply, painfully, perhaps with 
too much hopelessness, that any thing we can do 
will stay the mischief; yet we ought to try, if only 
to shelter some buds of promise from the blight 
that has come into our Lord's own garden, check- 
ing every symptom of restored vitality. Personal- 
ly, I am averse to controversy in reading, writing, 
or conversing: as one housed and sheltered and 
secured, is averse to put to sea again and bide the 
storm. I was long entreated before I wrote the 
" Listener in Oxford," and have read as little 
and thought as little as possible upon the subject 
since ; not from indifference, but contrariwise : 
from painful susceptibility to the mischief; less 
painful to my mind, in its bolder outrages than 
in its hidden influence. We know the lazar- 
house, and may shun it, but who shall set land- 
marks to the infected atmosphere that surrounds 
it, and say, " here all is safe." I see nothing 
safe. Persons one has depended upon, Chris- 
tians and Christian ministers, who have no 
idea of taking up the Tractarian views, have so 
lowered their tone in spiritual things, as really 
breaks one's heart with sadness ! I live much at 
home, and out of society; but still I meet and feel 
the chilling influence every where. It is a real 
refreshment, to receive a communication such as 
yours, from one unchanged in the profession of 
the gospel. Your ladyship is perhaps a better 
judge than I am, respecting the plan proposed. I 
have heard that much good has been done by the 



1 92 LETTERS. 

association that leaves religious tracts monthly at 
the houses of the rich in London ; they read from 
mere idleness or curiosity, and because they do 
not know where they come from. I will gladly do 
anything I can do to promote the success of such 
plans as you may devise. I take the liberty of in- 
closing the only thing I have written further upon 
the subject, in the form of a review, for a monthly 
publication, of an inferior order, but for an impor- 
tant class of readers, for which I wrote it bv re- 
quest.* I find it more wholesome, and how much 
more pleasant, to write for truth, than against 
error; but we must do what we can. 

My brother, for whom you kindly inquire as 
my father, is still in the exercise of his ministry at 
Desford, though a good deal reduced in capability 
by recent severe illness. With many thanks for 
the pleasure you have afforded me, I am, 
Your Ladyship's obedient servant, 

Caroline Wilson. 

* Review of" The Church in the World." 



LETTERS. 193 



XXVIII.— TO LADY * * * 

The Windmills, Blackheath. 
January 9, 1840. 

My Dear Madam, 

It is indeed curious that I should send you the 
review of yourself, without the remotest suspicion 
that I was doing so ; I received the work, as you 
must know from the author ; and though I in- 
quired of S , to whom I owed my thanks, he 

kept your secret entirely. I did in fact attribute 
it to another person, a gentleman. Need I add 
the secret is safe with me, and I think you do 
right to let it be supposed of masculine origin, I 
should much like to see the proposed paragraph 
added to the very useful little Tract, which last I 
take the liberty of retaining. The only freedom I 
have used, or found the least opportunity to use, is 
in drawing my pen through your own correction, 
which seemed to ask the reader to choose between 
two phrases. Am I right in judging, that while 
" the baptismal font/' is nothing in any sense, the 
"water of baptism'' is a Scripture term for vital 
renewal by the Holy Ghost : and that therefore 
the former expression is rather the safest for your 
purpose ? 

You do injustice to your style of writing, to sup- 
pose it incorrect ; but in that or anything else, I 
beg you to command me at all times. I feel, or 
apprehend a time approaching, when those who 
17 



1Q4 LETTERS. 

will hold fast the former things, and openly con- 
tend for the pure faith of Christ, will be "left as a 
beacon upon the top of a mountain, as an ensign 
upon the hills," abandoned altogether of the host; 
but they will be rallying points to the scattered 
flock, round which the few will gather close amid 
the general dispersion ; and dear and precious 
they will be to each other, beyond anything we 
have known of in our late triumphant progress. I 
have thought, and so have others, that this may 
be God's purpose, to bring out of all parties a 
people' for himself, and unite them to each other 
by the defection of their own separate churches ; 
thus making Puseyism itself the instrument of pro- 
ducing a unity in the Church of Christ, far other 
than their arrogance demands. For the present, 
I can only say, " Blessed be His name !" for 
every individual whom I find safe. To you, my 
dear Madam, I cannot but perceive there is a near- 
er and more painful interest : the evil has touched 
your home and your domestic affections, and 
mixes fear for those you love with jealousy for 
your Saviour's glory. Still, be comforted, these 
things are terribly taking to the young, unchastened 
heart ; but many are gone out from us who will 
come back : and many are hesitating who will yet 
not go. All means must be tried, but the most 
powerful is prayer. 
The above was written before I received your 
Ladyship's second letter ; for it, I must reserve 
my answer till a future day, being busy, yet un- 



LETTERS. 1Q5 

willing to detain this. Meantime, in some haste 
to terminate this unworthy return for your kind 
communications, believe me, my dear Madam, 
Very sincerely yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



XXIX.-— TO MR. B * * * 

1840. 

It is reported that Mr. B wants to know 

why Mrs. Wilson thinks it more a sin to go to the 
# # # church concert, than to go to Westminster 
Abbey at the Coronation Festival. Mrs. Wilson 
has not said it is sin to go to either. The inex- 
pediency and impropriety of the one festival ap- 
pears to Mrs. Wilson to bear no proportion to the 
other, though both may be, and have been ques- 
tioned. 

Westminster Abbey is at all times a place of 
pomp and ceremony more than of devotion. The 
Queen's Coronation is a thing of rare occurrence, 
and certainly the appanage of the royal ceremony 
left nothing of association with church worship in 
the appearance of the place. A very different 
case in Mrs. Wilson's opinion to the desecration 
of parish churches, and common places of worship, 
by the same persons and in presence of the same 
populace, who are to occupy the same seats for 



IQQ LETTERS. 

their habitual Sabbath service ; which, if it have 
no effect upon the mind, the setting apart of build- 
ings for the purpose can scarcely be necessary at 
all ; but which in Mrs. Wilson's opinion, is calcu- 
lated to bring the church into contempt, if it do no 
worse. However this may be, as to the celebra- 
tion itself, Mrs. Wilson is sure there is a great 
difference between the act of an individual going 
in a crowd to Westminster Abbey, at a season of 
national rejoicing, to an entertainment so sanction- 
ed and appointed as that at the Coronation ; and 
the act of those, who having consecrated both 
themselves and their churches to the service of 
God, do for their own purpose, get up such enter- 
tainments, and affix names to it, that ill become 
the printed lists of this world's pleasure-makers, 
however innocent the occasion, in the face of their 
congregations, to the distress of the tender con- 
science, to the offence of many, to the misleading 
of more, to the triumph of the worldly, who know 
better what a believer's profession requires of him, 
than he sometimes knows himself. All this is done 
on the present occasion. We leave the parties to 
measure and divide the evil-doing. 



LETTERS. 197 



XXX.— TO LADY ***** 

Bath Hotel, Bournemouth, 
August 13, 1840. 
Dear Milady, 
Your much expected and more desired letter 
overtook me here ; no unfit spot to enjoy the 
thought of your enjoyments. I need hardly tell 
you how much I am delighted with your descrip- 
tion of yourself. Those are delicious moments, 
when the worn and jaded spirit that the world has 
tired, finds the fresh zest of young existence can 
return, and we be sixteen again, in the enjoyment 
of what neither wears nor ages. I am so happy 
about you as I cannot tell; my love for you was 
never so w r ell proved, to myself, as when I first 
heard of your departure from the Hospital, by the 
fact that pleasure was my first sensation at the 
news. Self spake afterwards, and said we could 
not spare you : but I thought, I knew that you were 
right, and doing most wisely for yourselves, and 
though I could spare some better, I have never 
brought myself to the exact point of being sorry ; 
if I had, your letter would have shamed me. Now 
if I were not the happiest of beings I should envy 
you ; most fully I do indeed enter into all you 
speak of, and since the place is what you expect- 
ed, and the church what you expected, I do not 
regret the sort of unseen leap you took, although I 
did, and read anxiously on, till your description 

17* 



198 LETTERS. 

came to the Sunday. Truly has God cast the lot 
into the lap for you, and as surely will He bless it 
to you. Your dear child will retain, I trust, un- 
spoiled, those natural and innocent tastes which 
alone will bide the test of time and sorrow, and 
whatever else advance of years may bring. In 
early life I knew no other pleasures, and though I 
have tried many others since, and loved them, 
and worn them, and loathed them ; the time seems 
fast approaching when these will alone remain. 
To find they do remain, in all their freshness, is 
ever and anon a great delight to me, — as it is just 
now to you— fancying always in society I am five 
hundred years old, and had better be off the stage, 
— yet, turned loose upon a heath, I discover that I 
too am sixteen. I was under this blissful impres- 
sion when your letter reached me. We travel at 
a sort of venture this year, scarce knowing where 
we would go. From Southampton we drove to 
Lymington, to pass a quiet Sunday. It is what 
may be called a stupid, uninteresting little place ; 
but the air has something so peculiar in it, as 
makes it a pleasure to exist and breathe : there is 
a good clergyman, a comfortable little inn, and we 
passed a most pretty Sunday. More rapturous 
sensations waited for our arrival here. Had you 
not left our world, I am sure we should persuade 
you to come; I have enjoyed nothing equally for 
very many years. It is a new watering-place, 
easily accessible in one day from London ; and to 
us poor Southrons a great discovery; beyond the 



LETTERS. |gg 

smell of gas, the noise of engines or the taint of 
smoke; beyond the regions of donkey-driving, and 
almost of carriage wheels, with the very best ac- 
commodation that can be enjoyed at an Hotel* 
We have found no place where the sea could be 
so enjoyed within doors and without ; you can 
walk miles by the water's edge, with the most 
beautiful cliffs above you, and when tired of that, 
you may strike into the woods and lose yourselves 
in impervious shade. I have been in a fit of poe- 
try ever since I came here — now ten days since 
— and had there been no seventh in the ten, it 
would have needed only continuance to be as 
bright as yours; but alas! the Sabbath brought 
nothing but blight upon our paradise. Whatever 
the first Eden was, it ceased to be when God went 
out of it, and there has been no Eden since, till 
He in His grace shines on it ; and though next to 
His word, there is no pleasure like the enjoyment 
of His works, the one has no zest without the 
other. Yes, I mean to be quite sure we shall 
come and see you next summer, because if w T e do 
not, it may be still the next, and never get farther 
off; anticipation, however, is not one of my facul- 
ties, and if I lose some pleasure by this want of 
forecasting, I also escape much pain. Much I 
should like to see you now. We leave here on 
Saturday for Weymouth, thence pass at the be- 
ginning of the week to Lyme ; and thence on a 
visit to my sister near Bristol. We expect to 
reach home about the 10th September, there and 



20(K 



LETTERS. 



then to miss once more our friends at the Hospital, 
the very name of which now grates upon the ear. 
Self must have its say, and since I cannot after 

your letter regret that you are at C , I must 

wish C — were not where it is ; too far for us, 

though not for you. This last, I well believe; It 
is a knot more easily cut than disentangled, that 
holds the Christian and the world together. Great 
indeed is the manifestation of divine love to those, 
to whom is given both the power and the will to 
do what you have done. I wish — no I don't wish 
— for God has done for me abundantly above all I 
could ask or think; but if I did wish at all, it 
would be for exactly such a home as yours to end 
my days in. By favour of the new freedom of the 
press, I hope you will write to me from time to 
time, if only to convince us that you are not too 
happy even to remember, — as I shall else suspect. 
Perhaps you will not like to write again till we 
reach home, or if you should, the letter will be 
forwarded, without troubling you with a new 
address. With all love and gratulation to Sir 

J and the young naturalist, believe me, 

what you know lam and shall be, 

Ever affectionately Yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 20j[ 



XXXI.— TO LADY ***** 

The Windmills, 
Nov. 6, 1840. 
Dearest Milady, 
If I forgot you at all other times, I should think 
of you in a gale of wind : but it is not so. The 
supply of letters is very short this season, and per- 
haps my correspondents do not suspect it is owing 
to the dryness of the weather. Yet is it true, both 
in fact and in philosophy; and you may not expect 
letters in fine weather. My mornings are devot- 
ed to my books, broken in upon only by charitable 
and domestic concerns ; my afternoons to exer- 
cise and visiting, my evenings, to my husband ; 
consequently the only time for letter-writing is a 
wet afternoon; and if there are no wet afternoons 
for six months together, what but absolute dearth 
can be expected. This is the simple truth, worth 
a hundred thousand excuses. But I did want very 
much to hear from you, and to have the beautiful 
impression of your felicity renewed. It is a strong 
w T ord, perhaps, for such an attainted world as this. 
I should not apply it to any sort of happiness, but 
the enjoyment of God in his works, or in his 
words. Most earnestly I trust that you will long 
retain it unembittered. You do not wish now to 

take Admiral F 's vacated honours, I am sure. 

However I laughed at the romance of C , I 

never doubted the blessing of God would attend 



2Q2 LETTERS. 

upon your leaving the Hospital, because you did 
it in His love. How many restless and joyless 
members of God's family might have peace, if 
they would go and do likewise : if they had cour- 
age to cut the knot they cannot disentangle. I 
want to see you dreadfully ; I must beg you not to 

fall out with C till we have been to visit 

you. I feel a wonderful persuasion of coming 
next year, w r onderful for me, for I do not like next- 
years. When I was single, I said if I ever kept 
house I could have no salt beef, because I could 
not provide for next week; it seemed too long. 
However the beef comes ready salted, and plea- 
sures innumerable have come ready sweetened 
and prepared; and found me ready to accept 
them and be grateful to the Giver, baiting nothing 
of enjoyment for lack of expectation. Now what 
am I to tell your felicity-ship, of this working-day 
world of ours ! Nothing now, for the sun is come 
out, and I am off, and you must wait the next 
rainy day. 

Thursday, March 2. 

To resume. — Great part of our friendly popula- 
tion are away at Brighton; and we are enjoying 
our uninterrupted homeliness, a little disposed, in 
one sense, to walk disorderly of late, that is, to 
walk away to Mr. M on a Sunday. I sup- 
pose you are not beyond the reach of "rumours 
of wars," &c. It has occurred to me, whether it 
might be that a tear would break your peace. I 



LETTERS. 203 

hope not, for one who has served his country so 
long and well, may justly claim the remainder of 
his years to serve another master, and enjoy his 
better wages; not that any body believes we shall 
have war, except the students of prophecy, w 7 ho 
are all alive; and they prefer revolution, I believe, 
which seems nearer at hand. If God's time be 
come, we have no interest in wishing it postponed ; 
but till we see the sign of His coming, " Give peace 
in our time, O Lord I" is the heart's natural prayer; 
and I do not like out-running God's judgments, to 
go before his wrath. It seems as if we were less 
patient of iniquity than He is. Indeed, with all I 
have seen, and learned of his goodness and long- 
suffering pity, it is the greatest trial of my faith, to 
believe that there will ever' be an end to it. But 
He has said it. Now how much love will you 

please to deliver for me, to Sir , with some to 

the country lass, for whom my respect increases. 
Mr. Wilson would, I am sure, wish me to say for 
him all manner of fine things, both laudatory and 
congratulatory. Do write often, and whenever it 

rains you shall have first turn Farewell. I 

have not told you that we are well, but we are so, 
in mind, body, and estate, — to God be the praise ! 
Shall you come up or down this winter? Or do 
you scorn us utterly? 

I am ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



204 LETTERS. 

XXXII.— TO LADY ***** 

February 1, 1841. 
My dear Lady , 



I am afraid you have thought me long in writing. 
That you may never think otherwise than the truth 
about it, allow me to say that in the daily division 
of my time, there is none properly assigned to let- 
ter-writing ; which therefore has to abide the 
chance of wet w r eather, indisposition, or other ac- 
cidental opportunities. Some reason I had for de- 
lay, in the expectation of hearing from Seeley of 
your MS. As it has not appeared, I conclude he 
thinks, as I should expect to be the case, that it 
does not require correction. I have considered 
fully and deliberately all you say upon the painful 
subject of our correspondence, and feel I agree 
with it wholly and without reserve. It w 7 as early 
days in this mischief that I wrote my work ; and it 
was framed more to defend the healthy, than to 
cure the already infected. I doubt it is in many 
cases necessary to give the poison and antidote to- 
gether. But the more I deliberate, the more I feel 
assured I am not the 'person for the undertaking 
you propose; however, if your machinery were in 
motion, I might occasionally assist it. I will say 
nothing of disinclination to controversy, that would 
be a bad reason : but I plead unfitness; I am, if 
truth be told, too much a woman to play with such 



LETTERS. OQ5 

dangerous weapons safely ; apt to be sharp when 
warmed in the conflict, and to wound when 1 do 
not mean it; and a great deal too sensitive in my 
own nature, to brave the w r ounds I may receive 
for reprisal. Beside, I am unfavourably situated, 
by the great goodness of God; out of sight, 
and almost out of hearing of the strife, except by 
remote effects. I live in a small circle of like- 
minded friends, and never meet Puseyites, unless 
some youth from college strays this way, or non- 
sense-talking girl ; so that I really know not half 
that you do, of the actual workings of the system, 
and the phases under which it must be practically 
viewed and dealt w 7 ith. If I may form a judgment 
from your letters upon the subject, no one would 
be so competent as yourself to meet the mischief 
and treat it in its home characters. Why not take 
out of those letters you speak of, what may be in- 
jurious to Dissenters, and so publish them ? For 
my own part, I refuse to fight on any ground but 
the Word of God. I love the Prayer Book, and I 
approve the Homilies; but I can make no stand 
there ; because, if Tractarians can prove their opi- 
nions in any degree upon the authority of the 
Church of England, I then demur to the Church, 
It is human. If the church is with them, the 
church is wrong. Such is my real mind upon this 
subject, that if all Christendom, past, present, and 
to come, should be brought to give countenance to 
these errors, it would not move me — to anything 
but grief — for there the Rock of ages stands, un- 
18 



206 



LETTERS. 



moved, immoveable, the same yesterday, to-day, 
and for ever; the same whether they will hear or 
whether they will forbear ; the same to me, if not 
a foot beside were found still standing on it. I 
care for the church only because, and only as long, 
as she herself stands thereon. Meantime, she is 
but the superstructure, with all her excellence; — 
not the foundation. I will abide by and defend, 
but may not build upon her: I will argue for her, 
but not from her. Still I do think with you, that 
Puseyism is purely sectarian ; and that Puseyite 
ministers break their ordination vows. The vari- 
ous modes you mention of meeting the subject, 
seem all good; but are they not occupied already? 
I see advertisements of publications almost daily, 
which seem, — for I do not read them,- — to take up 
the subject in almost every form. The difficulty 
of getting the already biassed to read, is certainly 
great in all such cases; but that is a state of mind 
so uncandid, they w T ould hardly be benefited if 
they did read. Nevertheless, I do not disapprove 
of your plans and suggestions, — quite otherwise : 
and would promote, as I might find opportunity, 
though I cannot originate or undertake anything; 
so at least is my present impression ; leaving it 
open to the all-directing Hand to employ me as He 
will, if He should judge otherwise, and make ma- 
nifest His pleasure to me. Do not let this, or my 
slowness in replying, deprive me of the pleasure 
of hearing from you, and hearing all that you are 
inclined to say, and doing all I can do, to assist 



LETTERS. 207 

your endeavours. I am sure they will do good, for 
your heart of hearts is in it, and God will bless 
your talent to His own use. No wonder you find 
all errors intermixed in this. It has been said, that 
Adam was the first Pope; if so, he was the first 
Puseyite; and it belongs by inheritance to every 
natural man ; it is the religion of fallen humanity, 
and therefore has more or less been as it were the 
colouring matter of every device of the Father of 
Lies for the separation of the church. 
Yours, &c. 

Caroline Wilsons 



XXXIIL— TO LADY ***** 

March 12, 1841. 



My Dear Lady 



The first paragraph of your letter makes me 
ashamed. I am not the busy, useful, industrious 
being you take me for, and I am not sure I did 
right to say I had not time for letters. There is a 
sense in which it is true, but it does not apply to 
my correspondence with you. Having nothing to 
do, but what I please, from my first waking hour 
to the last, I found nothing so easy as to fall into a 
habit of getting rid of time without knowing what 
became of it; and you know how soon the mind 
falls into the habit: and when a day has passed, in 



20g LETTERS. 

writing nothings, and saying nothings, and doing 
nothings, what a brain full of nothings will surely 
remain. The withdrawal of all intellectual im- 
pulsion and compulsion from without, would soon 
have reduced my sometimes overwrought, and 
therefore weary brains to this condition, if I had 
not made laws to myself, that such and such 
hours should be so-and-so employed, and should 
not be intruded upon by trifling occupations; 
among which, I ought not to have reckoned my 
correspondence with you, as correspondence in 
general, because your letters are both good and 
useful, as well as pleasant, and leave other than 
useless thoughts upon the mind. I make it a law 
to write for several hours every day, then I am a 
devotee to air and exercise, whether to tread the 
earth or dig it; and Blackheath, you know, is nei- 
ther on the top of a lonely mountain, nor in the 
heart of a wilderness; and I am not in the habit 
of being either " engaged" or " not at home." 
Enough of self: but you will perceive how mere a 
fid-fad I might become, if I did not say to myself, 
" Those letters must wait for a wet day, and not 
break in upon my hours of study." 

Your last letter deeply interested me. You will 
be struck as I was, with the remarkable coinci- 
dence of our thoughts, at probably the same mo- 
ment: so much, that I am induced to inclose the 
extract of what I had written a day or two before 
I received your letter: coming, by so different a 
process, to so similar a conclusion. I was writing 



LETTERS. 209 

upon the incarnation, quite irrespective of anybo- 
dy's views of doctrine, but, intent only upon my 
subject, wrote myself into the conclusion, without 
any premeditation, or design of proving it, that a 
Papist or Puseyite cannot believe the deity of 
Christ. Thus, w 7 hile you were inferring from their 
language, &c, with which you are familiar, that 
they do not believe the doctrine; I, who know no- 
thing of that, had by a directly opposite process, 
inferred for the doctrine itself that it could not be 
so believed. I enclose the extract, as it stands now, 
in a work I am writing, but may be many times 
altered before it reaches the press. Your observa- 
tions will not certainly induce me to weaken it. I 
inclose again the Review, which I do not want, or 
can get again. I wish the Semi-Puseyites could be 
made to see the danger of their concessions, and 
the folly of their talk : where every inch of ground 
they yield gives standing-room for the assailants. 
Verily, if our ministers had been bred soldiers or 
philosophers, they would have learned better wis- 
dom ; if indeed there be no treason in the heart. 
In lack of both, a little memory might serve them. 
Cannot they, who are so anxious to restore the for- 
mularies of the church, remember what that church 
was before they were disused? Oh! I fear the 
leaven is in the heart — M members one of another," 
but not as " the body of Christ." I am not sure if 
I ever saw, or only heard of, your son as the fa- 
vourite pupil of my brother; he, I am sure, will be 
gratified by what you tell me of his fidelity to the 

18* 



210 



LETTERS. 



truth. Never, I believe, was there a moment in 
which trimming was so dangerous, so ruinous; 
and though it is a light word, it has a deep, a dead- 
ly import. The evangelical church itself, even as 
distinct party, has become unsound; and we witness 
the strange anomaly of an ultra-calvinist contend- 
ing for baptismal regeneration. I read, with pecu- 
liar interest, your mention of God's dealings with 
yourself; — fitted indeed to give a just and painful 
accuracy to all your views and thoughts upon these 
matters, adding in some sense knowledge to your 
faith, even in respect of errors and corruption, 
which we know only by deduction from the truth 
that opposes them. To the " why" of a heart that 
must so long to be at rest, we can only answer, 
who is the Lord of hosts so likely to employ upon 
the field, in difficult and dangerous times, as the 
one who has seen most service. Certain we are, 
that whatever he requires, he bestows; the battle 
is not ours, but God's. With all Christian interest 

and regard, I am, my dear Lady , 

Sincerely yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 211 

XXXIV. TO LADY ***** 

April 23, 1841. 

My dear Lady 

I hope you have not left town, seeing your letter 
dated a fortnight back; I have been absent from 
home, and only found it on my return. It has 
pleased God, since I wrote to you, to send a cloud 
over my dwelling-place: occupying for some time 
my thoughts and feelings : by the death of a sister, 
at my house, very unexpectedly, and with painful 
circumstances attending. I have since been away, 
for the refreshment of our spirits from the shoek. 
I go so rarely to London, partly for lack of a car- 
riage, and more for lack of inclination, that I have 
almost entirely lost my sometimes numerous ac- 
quaintances there, and do very seldom either go 
or stay therein. A more determined country- 
mouse does not exist. I loved society once, but I 
don't now. I loved nature always, and better now 
than ever. I never go to London with my own 
good will, although so near it: and generally in 
the bustle of a day's business; I can scarcely 
therefore hope for the pleasure of seeing you. 
Perhaps we must all feel a measure of satisfaction 
in the outbreak at Oxford ; it promises a crisis ; 
their submission is affected, and will issue in defi- 
ance, perhaps separation, which may serve the 
church, while it loses them. I think thev can onlv 



212 LETTERS. 

fortify themselves now by isolation ; — by becom- 
ing a party, and making proclamation of war. 
This will do good, for all except themselves: how- 
ever we may feel for those within, we cannot, we 
must not, regret to see the cordon de sante drawn 
rigidly round the dwellings of the infected. I am 
told by a student from Oxford, that a Newspaper 
is to be substituted for the Tracts. We do not ex- 
pect, of course, that they will be silenced. With 
all kindness and respect, 

Sincerely yours, 
Caroline Wilson. 

P. S. On re-perusing your note, I perceive you 
haVe not seen No. 90. It exceeds credibility in 
evil daring. I am told Newman is a lost man : in 
intellect and spirits confused and crushed ; I am 
inclined to think the best issue would be their ab- 
sorption in the church of Rome; it would save 
numbers who will ever follow a separate banner. 
I perceive too, that I have not thanked you for 
kind wishes, and expressions of interest; and 
promises of prayer that availeth much, and is 
never undervalued by those that know their need. 
Neither have I said how much I should like to 
meet you, while yet acquiescing in the inutility of 
a brief and tumultuous morning call. You have 
not mentioned when you expect to leave town. 



LETTEKS. 213 

XXXV.— TO LADY ***** 

Blackheath, June 19, 1841. 

My dear Lady 

I did not think I could be so long, without ac- 
knowledging your last kind enclosure; so very 
kind when you had so much to do. I was glad 
too to find that you are satisfied, that all is doing 
that can be done, to meet the painful need at pre- 
sent. I think so too, and every day see fresh ad- 
vertisements. There is one from Mr. Goode, who 
is likely, I think, to vindicate spiritual truth faith- 
fully. I dare say you have heard, that a gentle- 
man in London has printed and sent by post Bishop 
M'llvaine's charge, to every clergyman in the 
kingdom. This is truly, as you suggested, to 
make a good use of the new freedom of the press, 
given us by the reduction of postage. I hear 
much of the Bishop of Chester's last charge, no 
doubt it will be printed ; all this is good; anil I 
have heard, I am not sure with how much truth, 
that a Tutor has been displaced from Baliol Col- 
lege, Oxford, for introducing Puseyism into a lec- 
ture. On the other hand, I hear anxiety expressed, 
do you, w 7 ho probably know more — participate in 
it? that a Conservative government, will fill the 
bench with Puseyites. If this be so, what are we 
to wish for ? I believe it can only be that God will 
do his ow 7 n wise and holy pleasure in all things, 



214 



LETTERS. 



without reference to our choice in any matter. 
Charlotte Elizabeth, who knows and cares so 
much for Ireland, thinks a change of government 
will put a stop to much of the good doing in Ire- 
land, — Is it so? 

Your extracts, printed and in manuscript, are 
very excellent, and very sad; as confirming our 
own sad impressions of the real, the final, and the 
fatal bearing of these views. 

I hope you are enjoying your release from the 
bustle of London life, still surrounded and occu- 
pied by those you love. Leamington has not es- 
caped the Oxford epidemic, I believe, — what has? 
I was going to say, who^has? but thank God, there 
are still a few, and the gladness of one's heart, as 
ever and anon one meets with them, is a compen- 
sation, some compensation at least, for the per- 
petual and heart-breaking change of tone, detected 
everywhere around us. Would this be recovered, 
even by the annihilation of the party, as such ? I 
am afraid not. The confusion of mind about re- 
generation in baptism, is undermining all truth in 
the evangelical party, — quite apart as they think 
and intend, but not really so, — from Tractarian 
views. Oh ! how much poison people swallow 
without detection or suspicion. Well, we can trust 
God with the care of his own truth, and we may 
pray Him to take care as well of our valued and 
endangered church ; most of all that our own 
hearts grow not cold, on the abounding of iniquity 
and error, so as to cede the lonely and forsaken 






LETTERS. 



215 



standard. Let me have the pleasure, some day, 
of another letter from you ; for believe me, I value 
them highly, and am, my dear Lady, 

With sincere esteem, yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



XXXVI.— TO LADY ***** 

December, 1841. 
Dear Milady, 
With all thanks for your obliging inquiries; I 
have not gone down during the late gales, which 
is all that can be said, for I do not find I like it 
much better than I did last year: but having no 
harbour of refuge out of the house, I was obliged 
to betake myself to walking up and down between 
two baize doors that have been put up in the pas- 
sage. I observe you make no allusion to anything 
in my former letter; but I conclude you received 
it. Thank you very much for yours, as bright as 
ever. Why do you thus endanger the tenth com- 
mandment? It has been a beautiful season every- 
where — saving the winds — which yet were no- 
thing like last year's and did us no sort of mischief; 
a hard frost last week, and now again warm as 
spring. This was true when I wrote it. I dare 
say there was much of truth in your judgment of 
your young neighbours, — but the line is narrow, 



216 LETTERS. 

an error on one side is nothing compared to an 
error on the other; and, I believe you know I al- 
ways thought you a little too lax in the reading 
for young ladies ; did I not? Whether so or other- 
wise, as applied to the present question, we know, 
dear milady, there is much that is attractive in 
mind and person, that is nevertheless contrary to 
purity and simplicity in a young female, and much, 
how much ! that is pleasing to the natural mind, 
which is nevertheless contrary to godliness. I do 
not advocate a vacant mind, but, if there were 
nothing good to fill it, which cannot be, it is better 
than a polluted one. You will perceive therefore, 
I concur with your pastor in the principle, though 
there may be extremes in the practice. If one 
sin, aye or one sinful thought be spared them by 
this abstinence, they will not be the losers, will 
they? What have I to tell you? We are losing 

our friends the , who leave Blackheath at 

Christmas. I do not know what Mr. Wilson 

means to say to Sir 's delightful letter : 

pious curates are scarce since they all turned Pu- 
seyites. I know one sound and useful man, who 
has a curacy of £100 a year without a house, and 
would be glad indeed to get a better; particularly 
if where he could take in a couple of pupils : the 

Rev. Mr. of . 

This letter has been a week in getting itself 
written, and here it ends. With all love and 
affection, &c. 

Ever yours, 
Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 217 

XXXVII.— TO LADY ***•*. 

December 18, 1841. 



My dear Lady 



I am so much obliged to you for writing again. 
I had become quite unhappy, because, having let 
time so unconsciously pass after the reception of 
your former letter, I did not know where to ad- 
dress you. A few days only before the coming 
of your last, I had sent to inquire if Seeley could 
tell me your present abode. Thank you very 
much for relieving my difficulty. I received your 
former communication on the eve of leaving home 
for our usual summer ramble, and did fully intend 
to answer it while out; but I did not do so, and 
then it was too late on my return, as I believed, 
to find you. Now r my long loitering book is done, 
and gone out of my hand, and I am quite at 
leisure: and believe me, very happy to resume a 
correspondence on which I set great value. To 
answer your kind inquiry first, the Blackheath 
fire was not within reach of us, and occurred dur- 
ing our absence. The people were strangers here, 
but it was a very distressing scene. I have read 
with great attention the sermon you kindly send ; 
I do not think the language of page 18, 19 can be 
admitted at all, without so much concession to 
Puseyism as throws all into their hands, though 
the preacher does not so intend. Is not this the 
19 



2\g LETTERS. 

whole secret of our danger and our ruin ? (that 
men see not the issue of their concession) for 
ruined we shall be at this rate by our advocates, 
if such they are ; I mean our peace-makers. 
"We have the Scriptures," but we are not left to 
our own " unassisted and erring judgment," &c, 
&c, to deduce the truth from them. True, but 
what is to help us? Not the Holy Spirit, who 
wrote the Book and can alone throw light upon 
it ; but " a complete rule," composed alas ! by 
other erring judgments and dim lights; but capa- 
ble of a completeness which the Word of Inspira- 
tion wants! And how, after all, does this infalli- 
ble authority end? Just as it always does: in the 
"I have said" of the preacher. The Bible is 
judged by the church — the church by the preach- 
er — and the preacher, as he always must and 
ought to be, by the hearers; and if some recusant, 
sitting in the corner of a pew during the sermon, 
chooses, by his own unassisted and erring judg- 
ment, to decide that "Our own church does teach 
and enjoin things that she is not prepared to deduce 
and prove from Scripture," there is an end of the 
complete rule. The Scriptures only can decide the 
controversy, and we end where we had better 
have begun : in deducing the truth " afresh" from 
the Book of Truth. I do not so speak in verbal 
criticism upon this sermon, but merely to show 
what I am strongly convinced of, that there is no- 
thing between the full exercise of private judgment 
on the written Word, and the infallible authority 



LETTERS- 219 

of an individual head — a Pope — even the apostolic 
priesthood will not do, because they will not agree. 
You may place an equal number of them on either 
side of your dinner-table: produce a certain text 
from the Bible, and ask them what it means; their 
interpretation shall be not only different, but con- 
trary. On which side of your dinner-table is the 
authority of the church? And verily you shall 
fetch the Prayer Book and not help them : for the 
one half will say the church teaches baptismal re- 
generation, and the other that she does not. We 
cannot, because we ought not, to have peace on 
such terms as these. It can be so achieved only 
as it has been before ; there can be but one of two 
infallibles — Christ, and Antichrist.— He who is 
God; and he who shows himself as if he were 
God. I am convinced there is no medium ; and 
our ruin is, that well-intentioned, peace-loving 
men, do not perceive this. Is not the real panacea 

contained in Mr. *s last page ? Excuse me 

all this. 

The only passage in my writings I now recal 
upon the subject you desire, is found in the " Lis- 
tener in Oxford," pages 175 — 178. I know you 
have the work, else I would copy it. I think some 
part of it is to the purpose, but I will think farther, 
and remit anything else to you that I find, or that 
occurs to me to say of it hereafter. Your little 
Tract is very good to its intent; I shall be happy 
to distribute it. But what has become of your own 
book? I never heard more of it. There are 



220 



LETTERS. 



some sad little attractive-looking children's books 

in circulation, by N 's sister, that need to be 

exposed. I am going to do something in it by a 
Review, perhaps : but I have " fired my periodi- 
cals/' and can do little more, I fear. We were 
this summer at the Isle of Wight, and looked in 

upon poor , one Friday, in the chambers of 

his imagery. Thank God ! indeed, we may, that 
that misleading is over. It was sad to see Chris- 
tians, true Christian people crowding to his chapel; 
and declaring that he still preached the gospel; so 
completely had he preached them into forgetful- 
ness of what the gospel is, as they once heard it 
from himself. But he was too honest a man : and 
all who are so, must do as he has done; I am 
afraid we shall not find many. We have been 
pleased to find Dr. Arnold of Rugby taking so 
strong a position against them : on the ground that 
the church is not the ministry, but the members. I 
am afraid I have given you some proof herein of 
a fit of idleness, by all this idle talk. You seem 
to have a great many children: have you not? I 
cannot think how you can find time to write: and 
yet I hope you can ; for it is a great pleasure to 

me. I am, my dear Lady , 

Most sincerely yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 221 

XXXVIII.— TO LADY *****. 

December 5, 1841. 



My dear Lady 



Very kind you are, to indulge me with such a 
family picture; blessed in you, and a blessing to 
you, I am sure. By the help of the night-lamp 
too, I discover how it is you find so much time to 
write, in the midst of all your patriarchal cares. I 
have ransacked the far places of my memory in 
vain, to recal a single impression of an interview I 
once had with you ; my sister tells me it was at 
Tunbridge Wells, thirty-one years ago ; but so full 
of bustle and of change, has been to me the tread 
of time in subsequent years, I find earlier impres- 
sions fairly trod out of my poor brain, while they 
are distinctly remembered by others. Great is 
God's goodness to the creatures of his hand, whe- 
ther he blesses with many or with few; for I can- 
not help contrasting the full casket of your trea- 
sures, with mine — full too, yet made to hold but 
one. 

Excuse so much of self, a sign the book is done; 
w 7 hich you must allow me the gratification of send- 
ing you when it is out. I can hardly tell you the 
name, as that is the last thing decided upon ; but I 
am sure that Christ is the subject; I have written 
it under more than usual discouragement. Many 
even of my own friends, — and of the public many 

19* 



222 LETTERS. 

more, — who would once have welcomed, and re- 
joiced in the truths it contains, will now disrelish, 
dispute, and perhaps reject them. "Who hath be- 
lieved our report," is the altered language now of 
those who remain unaltered, whereas they were 
once upon the popular side. So at least, I think it 
will be more and more, for what I call the out and 
out evangelical doctrines ; the full entire Gospel ; 
such as a now almost extinct generation of pious 
ministers, in and out of the church, preached it, 
and bequeathed it to us; but left, as I fear, few 
successors to themselves. But may we not regain 
by opposition, what w r e have lost by amalgama- 
tion? It was not popularity produced those men, 
though it finally embraced them. God knows his 
own purposes, and we know that they are good. 
It should suffice us. Thank you for all that 
you enclosed, especially the very nice " Mother's 

Thoughts," which I do like very much ; S has 

not sent the MS. to which I have full leisure now 
to give attention, and at all times would do so at 
your request. I felt much pleased by what you 

said of Archdeacon , not having read the 

, but knowing it to be Puseyite : but 

when I repeated it to a clergyman, one of the 
truest I now know, he said it was impossible to 
take out of the book, the false views that pervade 
it throughout. Is this so? I shall like very much 
to see your letters. It is easier to write in some 
cases than to speak, but it is a pity, when differ- 
ences must be controversy, — too much the case 



LETTERS. 



223 



just now. I hear we are to have a triumph at 
Oxford as to the poetry chair, in which I feel great 
interest, for the sake of the craft, as well as of the 
University ; but most for the honour of the church 

and its religion. If I had known Mr. to be 

your son-in-law, I might not have ventured to criti- 
cise his sermon. 

What is true on one side, is true on the other; 
and while there are many who are of Israel, yet 
are not Israel, there are some of every party who 
are not under its condemnation ; and will eventu- 
ally be proved to have miscalled themselves. I 
am sure you may hope this of all your dear chil- 
dren, who are now differing from you. Christ's 
sheep do often lose themselves, but He can never 
lose them. 

With the best wishes of this best season, believe 

me, dear Lady 

Sincerely and obliged, yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



224 LETTERS. 



XXXIX.— TO LADY * * * 

January 22, 1842. 

Dear Milady, 

The month of January is arrived, and I must 
inquire after the ponies; to whom I beg to make 
the compliments of the season, and if they stand 
so much my friends as to bring you hither, I 
promise them every manner of civility, excepting 
that of being run away with by them. Whether 
I will ever give them an opportunity, must remain 
doubtful, till I see them ; though I am by no means 
so bad, as I was in that particular. Of course 
you can feel no surprise, at the precedence here- 
in given to your favourites ; before I express either 

sorrow or hope about dear Sir J 's gout, &c, 

my thoughts being simply intent upon seeing you ; 
and my purpose in writing to know when you 
will come, — much more important than the coming 
of the king of Prussia. You must really give us 
as much notice, as you give yourselves, because 
if we have not to fit up St. George's Hall, I am 
sure there are friends, who will desire to be en- 
gaged to meet you, and don't be niggardly of 
time. We have beautiful weather now, but I 
could have wished you here at a better season, 
for such a house as ours. We will do what we 
can to keep you warm : w 7 ithin if not without. Mr. 



LETTERS. 225 

Wilson said I should tell you he left Staffordshire, 
when quite a boy, therefore knows not your 

present world. O fie ! it was not Mrs. B , but 

your own letters; and I shall not be satisfied till I 
ask the ponies. With the best wishes of the season, 
and every season to yourself and Co. 

Affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilsox. 



XL.— TO LADY * * * * 

February, 22, 1842. 



My dear Lady 



It may seem strange, but it is true, that at this 
moment I have it not in my power to comply with 
your wishes. I never make but one manuscript 
copy of what I write for the press, and that is in 
the printer's hands. The proof has passed through 
mine, and is in his hands also. I cannot send for 
it, because I do not know in which sheet the 
passage is, and I am as utterly unable to recal my 
own words, as if they were any body's else. I 
think the inclosed extract has not been altered as 
far as it goes ; but there is apparently something 
before, and something between, which are neces- 
sary to perfect the extract. In the former, it is, I 
know, a direct mention of Socinianism, something 



226 LETTERS. 

to the effect that they are consistent, in that, not 
believing the divinity of Christ, they do not pre- 
tend to trust their salvation to him. The latter 
omission is something to the effect, that He who 
judges will do it individually, not by communities, 
because in the soundest community there may be 
dishonest hearts, whose pure creed will not save 
them, and in the most unsound, there may be 
ivrong-headed people, who neither understand nor 
intend what they profess. These are not the 
words, but the purport of them. I have every 
reason to expect, that the work will be out in a 
few weeks. If you can w r ait, the earliest copy 
shall be forwarded to you, if you will kindly tell 
me how and where ; and then make whatever use 
you please of it. I am tempted to send you the 

inclosed, which will appear in the 

next month ; but you will please to keep the secret, 
as to the writer entirely to yourself. We are 
much comforted, by the choice of the new Bishop. 
It has been told me, that he selects for his ex- 
amining chaplain, the most pious young man in 
the University. Is the new Irish Bishop one of 
your family ! 

With pleasant anticipations of your coming 
packet, believe me, my dear Lady, 
Ever Yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 227 

XLL— TO LADY * * * 

February 28, 1842. 

My dear Lady 

I have read your interesting document with 
critical attention, but I find nothing in it that can 
be objected to, according to my own estimate of 
divine truth. The sacrifice of truth to unity is 
the ruinous device of the Evil One, that needs to 
be scrutinized and exposed ; because it is so well 
calculated to catch the simple and unsuspicious 
under the loved and ever lovely name of peace. 
There is a remark worthy of all observance, in 
the volume of Ridley, just issued by the Parker 
Society : either of his or Latimer's ; that unity in 
anything but the truth, is not concord, but con- 
spiracy. My dear old minister, William Howels 
the only pope I ever was in danger of acknowledg- 
ing on my own behalf, was used to remark, that 
the Scripture direction is to be " first pure, then 
peaceable," which might never be reversed, to 
give precedence to the latter. 

Your paper will be read with interest, and I 
doubt not with the blessing of heaven, by your 
children's children, perhaps for many generations. 
Dr. 's share in it is very good. 

No doubt you are a subscriber to the Parker 
Society. It bids fair to be a rich mine of gospel 
verity to strengthen and invigorate our rapidly en- 



228 



LETTERS. 



feebling hands. Of course, whatever be the pre- 
text for a declaration of war, justification by faith 
alone, and regeneration by the Spirit alone, is the 
ground on w 7 hich the weary conflict must be main- 
tained, and all be lost or won. Satan cares as 
little about rubrics and formularies, apart from 
these, as the lowest churchman amongst us. The 
party, I had very nearly said his party, at Oxford, 
have not hesitated to say that high-church and 
low-church does not signify: it is the Calvinism 
that must be exterminated, a name that in their 
tongue I have no doubt stands for what we mean 
by the Gospel — the perfect work of Christ. 

I shall take care of your paper, till further orders, 
and beg you to believe me, 

Your obliged and affectionate 

Caroline Wilson. 



XLIL— TO LADY ***** 

March 24, 1842. 

Dearest Milady, 
We have been much too long without commu- 
nication from you, and with you. I find by ex- 
perience the proverb must be reversed, " no news" 
is very seldom " good news ;" but generally con- 
trariwise. I suppose the old enemy must oc- 
casionally be contended with : and it is encourag- 



LETTERS. 229 

ing to hear you speak cheerfully of the winter past, 
notwithstanding your sick-room labours and 
anxieties. It shows you are yourself better, and 
more comfortably situated, which greatly tends to 
lighten your affectionate toil- It has been a very 
fine and cheerful winter: and having had few 
storms without and none within, I find myself in 
very good keeping. We look to your coming 
with great desire : and however it may be delayed, 
you will surely come at last; so I mean to think, 

as pertinaciously as I thought to see you at C 

last summer ; I never found castle-building a bad 
practice. I write to you rather the sooner, for 
for that I expect to be from home all next w^eek. 
Mr. Wilson is going to spend it with his relations 
in Worcestershire, and lam going with him for 
the simple purpose of not being left behind. You 
will observe by the papers, the death of Mrs. H — 's 
brothers. The first, and younger, was a very 
sudden but most beautiful death ; leaving a wife 
and family; the second, occasioned no doubt, by 
the former, a single man, and the last brother. I 

dare say Mr. H will have written you the 

account of it, as I know he corresponds with Sir 

J . It is truly such a death that one might 

long to be allowed to die. 

Thank you for the sermon : and yet, I almost 
regret when you make me speak about this. If 
your pastor were an unknown man, I should hear 
with simple satisfaction what you say about him, 

on his account and yours. But Mr. is not un- 

20 



230 



LETTERS. 



known, and the more favourably you speak of him 
the more uneasy I grow on your account. If by 
unprejudiced, dear, you mean indifference to the 
empoisoning leaven, that is so rapidly corrupting 
the pure stream of gospel-truth, so full, so blest of 
late years in our church, and throwing into confu- 
sion the minds of God's own people ; speaking 
merely of that modification of Tractarianism which 
w r ould disown its name, and so be only the more 
dangerous to the simple-minded, — you may ask no 
such thing of me, dear friend ; I am not one to 
stand indifferently by, while the strong-holds of our 
faith are assailed on the one hand, and betrayed 
on the other, and undermined on all ; you know 
me too well to think so. But a candid opinion you 
shall have upon this or any other subject on which 
you ask it; so, candidly, I find nothing amiss in 
the sermon except two expressions, "Alms at 
God's altar," page 1, and " Opportunities of re- 
ceiving the Body and Blood of Christ," page 8; a 
mode of speaking better understood by me, per- 
haps, than by many to whom it was addressed. 
So, leaving criticism, I think, or rather ive think, 
for we read it together, and made the same re- 
mark; it is very poor, and does not effect in us the 
only purpose for which it seems intended — to make 
the coin bestir itself in our pockets; the sad and 
urgent facts of the case being known to us before 
through other channels. Now all this will vex you: 
and I do not like to vex you ; but, if you really are 
so innocent as not to know why /, an out-and-out 



LETTERS. 



Evangelical, a Low Churchman, a Calvinist, any- 
thing or everything that you may please to call it, 

do not like Mr. P , just ask Mr. P how he 

likes me, and perhaps he will bring you to a better 

understanding of the difference. Or ask Sir J , 

if you like, why when all is making ready for the 
battle, the fleets do not lie pele mele, one amongst 
the other. 

Mrs. W is so urgent upon me not to forget 

her kind remembrances, pray consider them as 
sent. She has moved to the Heath again, and is 
quite well. I am afraid there is no more news, 
except that the B s are likely to lose their se- 
cond daughter, Georgiana. Mr. L has now a 

religious curate, who is doing some good in the 

parish. So much for gossip. Love to Sir J 

and the young ladies. I shall come and see you 
some day, in spite of Mr. P— — , but not till after 
your visit here : in May, I cannot give you longer. 
Tell Miss Fanny we are all "solfa-ing it;" and I 
expect when next we meet Mr. Wilson will sing 
a second with her in great style. 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



232 



LETTERS. 



XLIIL— TO LADY ***** 

April 13, 1842. 



My dear Lady 



The long-expected book has come at last. I 
have inscribed the lowly offering to yourself, and 
put it in S— — 's hands to transmit as soon as pos- 
sible; for I take it to be too heavy for the post. 
Meantime, I lose not a day to enclose the extract 
you desire; and have added another, of the same 
import. Do with either what seems to you good. 

Indeed, indeed it is a serious thing to write a 
book, or say any thing that cannot be unsaid — re- 
voked — recalled — however we may change. Most 
grateful above all persons I have cause to be, that 
by a peculiar providence, I was withheld from the 
public exercise of my talent for scribbling, till the 
truth of God had taken full possession of my mind ; 
and thus escaped the guilt and misery of its unhal- 
lowed use ; and all the regrets that might have 
been helplessly suffered, in seeing my own foolish 
words remain in action on the minds of others. I 
think often, w r ith mixed gratitude and horror, on 
what I should have written, had I written once. 

Thank you much for all the contents of your 
packets ; I like the Tract very much, as I do eve- 
rything you write or say. I wish this sad, sad 
subject lay not so near to your personal feelings 
and affections. Without any such interests, one 



LETTER?. 233 

has enough to do, to keep one's mind in peace 
about it; and I am sure it must sadly intrude itself 
on yours. But I may write no more now, lest I 
detain the inclosure, which you want. The book 
I hope will soon follow it, and meet with some ac- 
ceptance in your experienced judgment. It will 
be too strong for most, I know that; but so many 
like to read my books, who like not the whole 
truth as it is in Jesus, I had a mind for once to 
force it on their attentions. Excuse haste, and al- 
low me to be, 

Ever faithfully yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 

" One class of persons we know there is, who 
profess not to believe, that the Crucified was God ; 
and there is so much of consistency in their creed 
they do not profess to trust their salvation to him: 
whatever value Socinians set upon Christ's death 
as man, they do not consider it that perfect and 
sufficient atonement for sin which it can be only as 
he was God. But there is another class of whom 
I think with more wonder and some doubt; who 
do profess to know the infinite character of the one 
great sacrifice and satisfaction made for sin, and 
recognize in the blood of the covenant the blood of 
God ; yet make so light of it, take at so little its 
efficacious value, one scarcely can think that they 
believe it. Grosser than his who thought the gift 
of God could be purchased for money; baser than 
his who parted with it for one morsel of meat, is 

20* 



234 LETTERS. 

the estimate of Christ's atoning blood, by those 
who think its efficacy can lose or gain, by admi- 
nistration of their own poor polluted hands; or 
aught that they can add to it or take from it. I do 
not make myself their judge to decide a question, 
which may decide their everlasting state; I believe 
by Him who judges, it w r ill be decided individual- 
ly; not in communities or communions, whether 
held together by error or by truth. In the truest 
communion there are wrong-hearted ones, whose 
pure creed will never save them; in the most un- 
sound there may be wrong-headed ones, who do 
not understand or intend their own profession; 
and so may escape its guiltiness. God knows, but 
when we see this precious blood postponed, its effi- 
cacy made dependent on names, and forms, and 
places, and ceremonies; ordinances, institutions, 
works, sufferings, merits, or whatever else man's 
wit can substitute therefor, or add thereto; and 
men profess to find more safety and repose in these 
than in the sole value of the death of Christ: the 
doubt forces itself upon me, and I return it to every 
such a one, and bid him lay it deeply to his heart, 
—whether he does indeed believe the Crucified 
was God." — Christ oar Lain, p. 50. 

" Let us lose ourselves, and renounce ourselves, 
and forget ourselves in contemplation of the glori- 
ous mystery: (its Incarnation,) if only we be lost 
in shame with it for our low estimate of its cost of 
our redemption ; thinking, as we do sometimes, to 



LETTERS. 235 

dispense with the Saviour's merits; at other times 
to purchase his merits with our own ; nor that the 
lowest price ; for while many are thinking to ob- 
tain salvation, or to procure the benefits of Christ's 
death, by obedience to the law of God, depending 
for acceptance on prayer, and penitence and bap- 
tism and church-communion, and other their good 
works, because these are ordained of God, and 
commanded to be done: not a few are merchan- 
dising for the same precious purchase with a still 
baser coin — with forms and fantasies of their own 
devising, which God has not commanded, and for 
which they can produce no law at all, but of their 
own making. And oh ! the depth from which our 
thoughts have fallen from contemplation of that 
high and holy theme! even to behold no inconsi- 
derable number whose supposed merits, proffered 
to Almighty God, as substitutes or make-weights 
of the Atoning Sacrifice, are things in actual op- 
position and contradiction to his word. Do these 
believe that the Crucified was God ? We ask 
again and leave it." — Christ our Law, p. 59. 



236 LETTERS. 



XLIV.— TO LADY ***** 

May 10, 1842. 



My dear Lady 



I shall be very much pleased to receive the book 
you promise me; that or any thing left for me at 

Messrs. H 's, in Mincing Lane, finds its way 

to me in a few hours. I am not at all likely to be 
from home for more than a few days till July, and 
perhaps not then. I will give you a candid opinion 
of the letters ; but I say beforehand, that there can 
be no reason to withhold them. The words of a 
tried and experienced Christian, who has seen so 
much of life as you have, must be valuable, at 
least to those who are entering upon it ; and may 
be very strengthening to those who are equally ad- 
vanced, and drawing near, as you are, to the long- 
ed-for shore. Sure I am, at least, they shall not be 
by me objected to on the ground you speak of. It 
is the wisdom of the world, not of God, to withhold 
the truth, and make compromise with error, be- 
cause the one may do harm, and the other be mix- 
ed with good. The former position is never true, 
in the latter, the harmfulness of the error is all the 
greater for the mixtures. Of the works, of which 
you ask my poor opinion, I have read none, except 
Father Clement, very long ago; a pretty clear 
clear proof that I do not like them, but that is wide 
of the question whether they are lawful. I should 



LETTERS. 237 

not say unlawful—but I doubt their efficacy, and 
suspect their general tendency. For the very 
young I disapprove them wholly, and who else 
will read them 1 That is a foolish question per- 
haps, because a great many others do read them; 
and it is not impossible that just that number may 
derive good impressions from them, which they 
would not get, because they would not seek, in 
better reading; I mean the idle readers of a cer- 
tain age. I do not know, but 1 so thoroughly dis- 
taste the things, I am afraid lest it warp my judg- 
ment to condemn them wholly: had I a family to 
bring up, I should certainly make no use of them. 
But should they not at best be judged of individu- 
ally ? I apprehend some of those you name to be 
much worse than others: and if they are to be to- 
lerated at all as a medium of conveying religious 
truth, it must be with a strict limitation as to their 
character and bearing in other respects. # # c # 

Your next problem, my dear Lady , is a 

more difficult one ; I fear beyond my solution now, 
not wishing to detain this letter. There is just 
that difficulty in the very front of it, which so 
often meets me, and puts my wisdom at fault. 
People ask their w r ay without saying where they 
are going; and I may direct them to York, while 
they are bound for Exeter. 

There is not, there cannot be one road for those 
that are to pursue the world and to possess it, and 
those that are to renounce it. I could write you 
a volume, to prove that a pious parent should not, 



238 



LETTERS. 



and could not, stimulate and fill the young imagi- 
nation with unhallowed images of forbidden things, 
to become the torment and the taint of a mind de- 
voted to God, and conformed to his holy will ; 
while not one word that I might say, should be 
applicable to the parent who wishes and intends 
that the child should succeed and shine among the 
gay, the loved, the happy of this world's society. 
For after all, the world's poetry is better than its 
prose — the dreams of fairy land are better than 
the drudgery of mammon — the wildest disciple of 
romance is more lovely in her generation, than 
the cold, calculating drawing-room coquette. That 
her delusion will be the shorter and her disappoint- 
ment the surer, is no great evil: for the fashion of 
this world passeth, the game is soon played, and it 
matters little whether it be won or lost, when it is 
ended. If I look to gather winter stores into my 
garner, I plant my ground with one thing; if I 
want it to look pretty through the summer season, 
I plant it with another. Is not this so? But no 
more now, except the sincere esteem of, 
Yours ever, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 239 

XLV.—TO LADY ***** 

August 29, 1842. 

My dear Lady 

I received your note, and soon after it the pro- 
mised book; on the eve of departure from Black- 
heath for a short season ; and thank you much for 
affording me another opportunity and excuse to 
write. I thought the time had expired for your 
sea-side address, and that I must wait another. 
The book I looked hastily over before I left it be- 
hind, quite sufficiently to be satisfied of its cha- 
racter, and I trust it will be very useful to a not 
unimportant class, — that of young men entering 
on the profession — with a wish to reconcile its 
practices with the mind of God. The difficulty of 
this in every profession, trade, or calling, as now 
carried on in the w r orld, — the more than difficulty, 
I should say impossibility, of following any after a 
godly sort, without the sacrifice of its temporal 
advantage to a greater or less extent, is a thing 
that has much fixed my attention through life, by 
the opportunity I have had of observing the spirit- 
ual difficulties of every class of persons. From 
the least to the greatest, I have seen that the ut- 
most the god of this world proposes, must be fore- 
gone, unless some manner of service or of homage 
be conceded to him. " All this will I give to thee, 
if" — must be heard in every believing heart; and 



240 LETTERS. 

the choice made in every faithful one, to be less 
rich, less honourable, less successful, in this world, 
than he might have been if the love of Christ con- 
strained him not. I am so persuaded of this my- 
self, I always purposed if I had children, to keep 
it before their eyes and my own, as a matter of 
course, that the great things of this world must be 
righteously renounced, and no question made, how 
they might be righteously attained : not in one 
path only, but in all, from the bar downward to 
the poor waterman, who could make money on a 
Sunday, if. Is there any stronger evidence of 
human corruption, and the present reign of the 
evil one, than this — that the most lawful calling 
cannot be righteously pursued without departing 
from the common practices of the world, and leav- 
ing its utmost advantage to the ungodly. I was 
much pleased with your approbation of our dear 

friend C M , and so w r as he, for I made 

him a party to your observations. Authors sorely 
need encouragement, and they will need it more 
and more, who in these days are to stand against 
the turning tide. When I leave home, I feel the 
truth of your observation, that I am happy to live 
out of the sphere of contention, and fire my poor 
missiles from a distance. It is difficult to go many 
miles from home, and take the chances of a single 
Sunday, without encountering the mischief in some 
form or other. I was sadly grieved in this way at 
* * * last Sunday, more perhaps than the thing 
was worth ; for though Mr. had some repu- 



LETTERS. 241 

tation at , as an evangelical minister, I never 

heard him fully preach the truth, nor quite believ- 
ed he did, though others thought so. I was quite 
unprepared, however, and proportionately shocked, 
to hear him tell a large congregation, well enough 
disposed I dare say to believe him, on the text: 
"Make your calling and election sure;" that the 
only calling and election here spoken of was al- 
ready their's, by birth and baptism in the Christian 
church; and their only care must be to keep it, 
and make sure of its ultimate benefits, by a holy 
and virtuous life. And so deeply leavened is the 
sometimes religious world with this insidious 
poison; so confused and confounded are minds 
not really persuaded or perverted, that numbers 
sate contented with the hearing, and departed 
satisfied with what they would sometimes not 
have endured to listen to. This is the forecasting 
woe, that threatens all people, to strive against 
Popery and Puseyism all the week, and on the 
Sunday listen to their perversions without know T - 
ing it. For myself, I am a faint-hearted coward, 
and would gladly be out of hearing of these ru- 
mours of wars; but I am ashamed to be saying all 
this to you, who have to bear with it, and to deal 
with it so much more nearly. Does it not some- 
times make you cry, " How long, O Lord, how 
long?' 

I have not your former letter by me, and am 
afraid there may be something in it I neglect to 

answer to. If you see the , you will 

21 



242 LETTERS. 

find in the ensuing number a review of Tractarian 
Novelists; Paget and Gresley in particular, of 
which you will detect the writer perhaps. They 
are monstrous. 

It is rather grievous to observe to w 7 hat extent 
also the periodical press is in possession of the 
enemy. You see I am terribly out of heart. 
Nevertheless, there seems to be a sound gospel 
ministry here. I call to mind your question re- 
specting the clearness of Mr. M 's writing. In 

his preaching, being extempore, it is something 
quite extraordinary. I was pleased to have my 
impression of it confirmed by your notice of it, in 
connection w 7 ith the eagerness and rapidity of his 
delivery; it indicates a mental power of a very 
peculiar character ; because it is a rapidity and 
perspicuity of thought, not of mere language: it is 
the mind, and not the tongue, that acts with such 
extraordinary velocity and exactness. I am afraid 
you will discover by my prating, that I am under 
the influence of watering-place idleness. I expect 
to return home next week, and hope to be soon 
obliged with another communication from you. 

Meantime, my dear Lady , believe me, 

Sincerely and obliged yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 243 

XL VI.— TO MRS. T . 

September 7, 1842. 

My very dear Friend, 

The newspapers have made known to me your 
great affliction : what can I say to you 1 Nothing 
of comfort that the Holy Ghost has not already 
said within you, but only a few vain and empty 
words of human sympathy and love, — " The Lord 
gave," or rather lent, and if we ask, why should he 
resume? we must first answer, why should he 
have ever given? 

Yours was indeed a brief loan, poor dear ! and 
because I know your more than common desire 
for children, and more than common delight in 
them, 1 estimate very deeply your present suffer- 
ing. That you are upheld and supported under 
it, I am also sure, for your heart has been too 
long given to Jesus, for you to refuse him any 
thing beside ; and He has been too long given to 
you, for any other loss to leave you destitute. 

These are lowering and darkening times, dear; 
and they who see their loved ones safe on shore 
before them, will die happier than they who leave 
them on the deep : you cannot feel this now, but 
you will. Be comforted and wait; you know that 
I say to your dear husband, all I write to you, and 
comprehend him in all I feel for you. At your 
leisure, and entire inclination, not before, I should 



244 LETTERS. 

like to hear of both of you. We are just returned 
from our usual summer holiday; thank God in 
health. With Mr. Wilson's most kind regards, 
and feeling sympathies, believe me, dear, 
Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



XLVIL— TO MRS. T . 

September 20, 1842. 

My dear Friend, 

Your letter is just such as I expected from 
yourself; the voice of thanksgiving from a broken 
heart — praise in the depth of affliction. Such 
choice and lovely flowers bloom but a short sea- 
son in general ; there seems but little of the dross 
of earth about them, and why should they bide 
the fire. 

In respect of your wish about the Epitaph, I 
think those you selected very appropriate; and 
should hardly expect to substitute a better of my 
own. But if it is the feeling of your love to put 
something of mine upon the tomb of your precious 
child, perhaps the inclosed will meet your wishes, 
which I have penned for the purpose. It is not 
easy to select within the given compass; I send it 
only on the condition that you make no ceremony 
of rejecting it, if you prefer another ; since it is 



LETTERS. 245 

your estimation of it only, that can give it value 
for the purpose. I write in haste lest you should 
be anxious for it. Yes, dearest, I have ceased to 
wish for children long before my death-bed. It is 
the natural desire of a wife, but I very soon found 
I had enough to love, and enough to lose. The 
very feeling, at first so painful, that if I should lose 
my husband, I should have nothing left, was soon 
converted into a thought of satisfaction. I should 
wish to have nothing left in this world, that my 
whole heart's affections might be transferred at 
once, and the last tie be broken. This has been 
long my feeling; but you are younger, dear, and 
must not so desire. You have blessings left, and 
they must bring their duties and their cares, and 
you must try yet to enjoy the one, as well as fulfil 
the other ; and you will — God will comfort you. 

Caroline Wilson. 

Epitaph. 

Brief thrall of sin 

His spirit held — in Jesus risen again, 
Brief be the tomb 

That holds his body now, till Jesus come. 



21* 



246 LETTERS. 



XLVIII.—TO LADY *****. 

October 25, 1842. 



My dear Lady 



Though I have been too long in saying it, I hope 
you will believe that your first letter, saying most 
of yourself and of what is yours, was by no means 
the least interesting to me. Indeed, apart from the 
near interest I have in Desford Rectory, that is a 
story might deeply affect any heart, feeling and 
liking to feel its entire dependence, trusting and 
liking to trust, everything to the control and de- 
termination of the Most High. Indeed you say 
right, there is enough there, and enough every- 
where, to shame us out of anxiety of any kind. 
Mistrust in a child of God, is the most irrational 
thing in the world; but seeing that we are such 
poor frightened children, striking interferences of 
providence like that you mention, are very gra- 
ciously given from time to time, and may be most 
profitably repeated and contemplated, for our en- 
couragement as well as for our reproof. You 
have a right to be assured, and must be assured, 
that you will not be turned*aside permanently, 
however opposed by adverse influences for a sea- 
son; and we will hope not even this. I have no 
doubt myself, and it is the feeling of the most de- 
cided people I meet with, that it is war, not peace, 
for which we must prepare ourselves: separation 



LETTERS. 



247 



not union, to which we must be ready to submit, if 
it please God to suffer the extremity of this mis- 
chief. We do expect the Evangelical party must 
stand out, with such a show of resistance and de- 
termination, as will either force respect by its num- 
bers, influence and consistency, and afford for Zion 
a stronghold, and a safe one within the establish- 
ment; or, as will, on the other hand, so array the 
hierarchy against us, that we shall be cast out, 
ministers and people together, from the parental 
roof; and if on the one hand we see many, who 
seemed to be of us, going out from among us, or 
compromising all that is most precious to us, those 
who abide are waxing stronger and stronger, and 
gathering as it were in expectation of the conflict. 
Such are the signs of the times, I would you had 
no more personal difficulties and anxieties about it 
than I have, for though sore distressed, and often 
very sad in spirit about this declension in the 
church, and obscuration of the light so long enjoy- 
ed, it is as the member feels for the body, rather 
than individually for itself. I shall stand by the 
established church, as long as she will let me; but 
I feel that I could do very well without her, if it 
became necessary. It would be a great loss for 
this world ; but what is there of this world that we 
cannot do without, and count but loss that w r e may 
win Christ: and having won him, maintain the 
purity of his faith, and the glory of his name. 

No, my dear Lady , I have not discovered 

that remedv, nor have I, like some others, looked 



248 LETTERS. 

for it, for I never believed it was intended in the 
present dispensation. A great deal was thought 
at one time, about getting pious men into parlia- 
ment. Men whose social position did not require 
it of them, (for I would not have them shrink from 
it where it does,) put themselves forward, and 
were supported by the religious body as such, in 
the expectation of dethroning Satan there; there 
was an honest purpose and expectation of a great 
deal of influence for good; and I found myself 
almost alone in my opinion, that they were doing 
wrong. In the stir about the Sabbath again, in- 
stead of catching eagerly and thankfully at such 
poor crumbs of relaxation, as would have been 
thrown to us by that hard taskmaster, God's peo- 
ple thought to have, and would have nothing less, 
than the utmost limits of his law, and purpose. 
Perhaps, too, the increase of religion in the high 
places of our church, has wakened a too lofty ex- 
pectation there, which, like the others, will disap- 
point itself. I have had but one mind about it all, 
it is a very simple view ; but nothing has disproved 
it yet. Our Lord is gone to receive a kingdom of 
his Father, he did not commit to his servants the 
government of the world in his absence ; but left 
the usurper on the throne till He returns. Far 
other was his last behest to them, "Love not, touch 
not, taste not, handle not." He did not ask his 
Father then to give it them ; far other was his last 
prayer for them. His people will reign with Him, 
they cannot reign without him, they may not pre- 



LETTERS. 



249 



vail to have the domination any way until He 
come again, and the God of this world is cast out. 
The Assistant of Education, respecting which 
you inquire, was a periodical publication edited by 
me for many years, and really written almost 
wholly by myself. The Listener was a part of it, 
also the Scripture Readers' Guide, now a separate 
work, in the 11th edition. Several of those you 
mention, I hope may be separate works some time, 
as I have them so prepared ; but would not take, 
and could not get others to take, the risk of their 
publication. About the advertisement you speak 
of, i am surprised ; as I believed the work, as a 
whole, to be out of print. My publisher failed and 
disappeared. I cannot tell who has advertised it. 
Still, if you get it, there is nothing of consequence 
in it that is not my writing; and a good deal that 
might be used in education, religion apart. Indeed 

I should consider the " ," a very nice 

and valuable gift to make to many persons. Your 
secrets, be assured are quite safe with me, and I 

doubt not so with S ; and I shall be pleased to 

see your Letters in print. I can hardly make up 
my mind, what to be doing next: but I cannot be 
idle long, for my own mind's sake. Circumstances 
give more w r eight to the question of profit, than I 
could wish it had, in the choice of subject: but 
this too is of God, and perhaps I require the im- 
pulse to keep me going. Nevertheless 1 hope I 
wait, and am sure I ask, for his direction in it. 



250 LETTERS. 

This is, I fear, a desultory epistle; but your kind- 
ness excuses everything* and you will 

Ever believe me yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



XLIX.—TO LADY ***** 

November 22, 1842. 



My Dear Lady 



I have received safely your inclosure, which 
shall be carefully kept till I have further directions 
from you respecting it. Greatly indeed I am 
grieved to hear of your serious indisposition; I 
can only hope and pray it may be but a temporary 
alarm, — a word I do not apply to you, but to those 
who cannot spare you. I will not impose a long 
letter on you now, lest you weary yourself to 
answer it; instead of just telling me you are get- 
ting well. I think I do not understand your pro- 
position respecting regeneration : that is, I under- 
stand your negative as to the baptismal service — 
there is, and ever must be a w 7 eak point, when we 
attempt to defend our church, in her formularies 
at least, though I believe not in her intentions. I 
say, "defend the church," because heartily as I 
would at all times defend our establishment by 
Holy Scripture, I refuse all defence of Holy Scrip- 
ture by the opinions of our church. What I do 



LETTERS. 251 

not understand is your view of regeneration as a 
change of state: I think you do not seem to mean 
a change from a state of nature to a state of 
grace ; from a state of condemnation to a state of 
justification ; as the high church party do, and as 
we do; and yet I cannot think what other change 
of state can be in your mind. In the passage you 
allude to, the word regeneration evidently, I think, 
means the resurrection of the body to renewed ex- 
istence ; which by analogy would strengthen our 
view that its ordinary meaning is the resurrection 
of the soul to spiritual existence, when it passes 
from death unto life. This we believe regenera- 
tion to be, and this we wish to disconnect from the 
baptismal service, otherwise than as between the 
sign and the thing signified ; which may or may 
not be in connection at any given time. And this 
we wish to make our church say, as far as we can, 
because if she will not, we must not defer to her 
opinion against what we believe to be the mind of 
God as manifest in Holy Writ. Mr. wish- 
ed to make the church in the right ; but many who 
think him scripturally unanswerable, are not satis- 
fied with his defence of certain phrases in the 
Prayer book. For my own part, as I profess not 
to expect perfection in anything that comes from 
the hands of man, I would rather stand upon the 
Articles, and the general purport of her services, 
and give up, as unfortunate and objectionable, the 
few expressions that have led to so much mischief 
and misapprehension. I would rather regret the 



252 LETTERS. 

blemish on her fair cheek, than attempt to paint it 
out. But I should like to know what you mean by 
a change of state as effected in baptism; only, not 
till you are well enough to write at ease. The 
Bishop of London's Charge has thrown a huge 
mass of ballast into our sinking boat, which threat- 
ens to swamp us utterly. But no more now; 
while God is on our side, we will not, and we do 
not fear what man can do against us. With the 
deepest interest in your health, and all that con- 
cerns you, believe me, my dear Lady 

Very sincerely yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 

P. S. — I should like to know, whether in the 
case of your death, the secret of your authorship 
is to be for ever kept. 



L.— TO LADY ***** 

January 3, 1843. 

My dear Lady 

Many thanks for all your kind communications: 
I am now so much on the debtor side, I think we 
shall not cross upon the road. I quite understand 
your term now, as synonymous with what we call 
High Church ; but still think the latter the better, 
because the more familiar term. Perhaps, to avoid 



LETTERS. 



253 



all the difficulties, of calling things by different 
names, which are only degrees of the same thing, 
is better. Nevertheless Tractarian, High Church, 
and Evangelical, would be three things in the eyes 
of most readers. I think your proposed addition 
to the book, quite unobjectionable; and as regards 
the word catholic, it may be useful. I was much 
pleased to get another copy of your little book, as 
it enabled me to send the first into the servants' 
room, I have received also the two volumes of 
Poetry: but alas ! I do not pretend to be no lover 
of poetry. I was born a poet, and bred a poet; 
and am perhaps too much of a poet still, but alas! 
What a requisition you have made, to read two 
volumes of — what shall I say] However, I will 
try at your request to look again ; at present I 
simply confess, I have found more Puseyism than 
poetry. There are many reasons for reading bad 
prose ; but I never yet could find a reason for 
reading or writing bad poetry; just because there 
is no necessity for poetry at all. I hope you will 
not be angry at this affront to your friend's muse; 
but you confess you have not read them- 

I have not written any more in the C , 

than I have named to you — except two; when I 
do so, I will tell you. 

I note your suggestions about Union ; but fear I 
am too hopeless, to be the instrument of promot- 
ing it. I never knew a moment at which it seem- 
ed so impossible, except by previous separation 
from the church; and even then, if the people of 
22 



254 



LETTERS. 



God within the church should become, as I think 
they ultimately will, a severed but united body, 
the state of the dissenting churches is most un- 
favourable to anything like union with us, on that 
side. Already they are taking advantage of our 
strife, to attack both sides; and it appears to me 
also, that their spirituality as a body is as much 
on the decrease, as their ill-will toward the Estab- 
lishment is on the increase. I am entirely per- 
suaded myself, that there can be no union; but an 
agreement to differ in love, about all that is not 
necessary to salvation. Never alas ! were we ap- 
parently so far from this. It may come, but I 
think it can be only through a time of such oppo- 
sition, and persecution, from the world and its 
church, as shall force the church of Christ to stand 
together, in its defence. Accept the best wishes, 
of this beautiful and bountiful season, come in with 
such unusual brightness. 

I am indeed rejoiced and thankful, that you are 

tolerably well again. My dear Lady 

Yours in real union, 
Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS 



My dear Ladv 



LI.— TO LADY ***** 

February 6, 1843. 



I am in arrears, I fear, with all your kind com- 
munications, and books too; which I am giving 
away discreetly, and hope they will do good. I 

mean ten copies of the " ." All 

you write about disunion is most true, most sen- 
sible ; but alas! it is retrospective, and what can 
that avail 1 You sav " if dissenters had remained, 

ml 

instead of separating." I doubt not you are right; 
but that is past. I do not know to what particu- 
lar period of separation your extract refers. If to 
that of the ultra-calvinist separation, under Messrs. 

B , &c; they long ago broke up, and God and 

the world took each their own amongst them. If 
the Irvingite party, — they are already joined in 
heart to the Puseyite faction; and will join hand, 
when they can do it without shame. Other de- 
nominations of dissenters already show themselves 
awakened by our strife: but are taking arms, to 
wound us on both sides. Even if they were better 
disposed to peace than I fear they are, we can no 
longer invite them to return into our fast-crumb- 
ling edifice, out of winch w T e are momentarily ex- 
pecting to be expelled. 

A very learned and pious clergyman here the 
the other day, wished to change the name, Dis- 
senters, and unite the pious of all sorts, under the 



256 LETTERS. 

name of Consenters; you would consent to this, but 
would you be prepared to see the whole body of 
God's people in the Establishment withdraw from 
it, to form this Consentient Church ! For my own 
part, I could be content to see it, if God did it; but 
I could not resolve to be the doer of it: because, 
better as the vital part might be without its en- 
cumbrance of worldly intermixture, the disloca- 
tion would be terrible, and its effects upon the 
world and its church most lamentable. Besides, I 
agree with you about the present and temporal 
advantages, among many spiritual disadvantages, 
which the temple of our God derives from the sur- 
rounding mass of outer-court worshippers; or the 
advantages, at least, which society derives, from 
the temporary amalgamation. Alas ! it is not on 
our side noiv, that the pulling-down of bulwarks is 
threatened : and our words will have little effect 
upon our opponents. It has been always foreseen 
by the far-seeing and deep-thinking, that the high- 
church and evangelical parties, being not differing 
but opposed in principle, could only adhere by suf- 
ferance on the part of the majority: — unity was 
impossible. Most of us fear that the time is come, 
w 7 hen that sufferance will be refused ; and then the 
minority must secede. I desire, on my own part, 
that it should be the act of our unnatural mother, 
to cast us from her bosom, rather than ours to 
abandon her, even in her corruption, while liberty 
of conscience is allowed on the disputed points. 
Approving therefore entirely your "Extracts," I 






LETTERS. 



257 



do not see them applicable to the present crisis. I 
pray God to protract it, — and he may; but the 
feeling of most is that the crisis approaches, more 
or less near, some say ten years — some say ten 
months. Much depends upon the government. If 
they grant a convocation, or meddle with church 
matters in parliament, the numbers are against us; 
and the church in England, will not long be the 
church of England; for which we shall all deeply 
grieve, and Satan will triumph gloriously; but it 
will not be we who have removed our tents, or ex- 
tinguished our lamps within her. 

How artful those people are! — among the host 
of them, there is not a more dangerous and per- 
verted or perverting one than . Your 

" Worldly Religion'' is a true painting, and will 
be a true likeness of more than it is drawn for. 
You may be quite at ease respecting the princi- 
ples, likely to be derived by your orphan niece, 

at Miss B 's ; their reputation for religion 

stands high; but there is said to be very great 
deficiency of instruction in every thing else, which 
is a great evil for one who may have to maintain 
herself, hereafter as you say, by the exercise of her 
mental acquirements. Would it be any satisfaction 
to you, that I should see her? Accept this return 
of little for your much ; and the inclosed from my 
valued pastor, against that enormous heresy of the 
Tractarians; "No regeneration before the ascen- 
sion." Ever most truly yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 
22* 



258 



LETTERS. 



LIL— TO LADY ***** 

February 12, 1848, 



My dear Lady 



You have so entirely misunderstood my last, I 
must undeceive you ; not only for the ease of your 
own mind, but, lest you should impart to any one 
else the thought which is founded wholly on mis- 
apprehension. I almost think it would be enough 
to ask you to read my letter again: but I may have 
written obscurely, and you may have forgotten to 
what I was answering, when I put the interroga- 
tory that you quote. You had exhorted to union. 
I saw but one union at this time possible, which 
was to be deprecated : I asked you if you would 
consent to that, not asking you to consent, but mean- 
ing to express my certainty that you would not; 
and when I added that / could, if, &c, it was an 
expression of painful resignation to the Divine will 
in that which I anticipate. From what part of my 
letter you could draw the inference that it is God's 
people w T ho are banding together to secede, when I 
meant to express the deep and anxious fear with 
which all the evangelical party see the high-church 
party banding together to force them out, I cannot 
at all guess; but I must have expressed myself ill 
indeed for you so to understand me. I do not 
know a single individual, lay or clerical, who 
wishes, purposes, or even thinks of leaving the 
church; but I know few- thinking and feeling and 



LETTERS. 



259 



informed persons, who are not afraid that under 
the growing influence of Puseyism, the Establish- 
ment will so change its ground as to leave us a 
separate body. That this does not occur to you as 
a possibility, without our own act, may arise from 
your not knowing what is doing, or is likely to be 
done. But suppose to yourself, the bishop of Exe- 
ter refusing ordination to every man, who will not 
subscribe that we are justified by baptism; and 
suppose him next to suspend all the curates, and 
withdraw all licenses within his power, on the 
same ground — or because they won't bow to the 
altar — or any other anti-scriptural thing. Such 
power he already has, and to an extent has exer- 
cised. But suppose further, that the Queen grants 
what they want; a convocation empowered to act 
in church matters, and make changes in the ritual, 
under the pretence of settling disputes. Immedi- 
ately the majority may decide for doctrines and 
practices, which no righteous minister can com- 
ply with ; articles which he cannot subscribe, 
because they are unscriptural: forms which he 
cannot use, because they are idolatrous. What 
must follow, as regards the ministry? What 
would, and ought to follow as regards their 
flocks? This is the view I meant to exhibit, the 
only one I or my friend from Oxford, to whose 
words I seem to have done great injustice, ever 
contemplated. This w 7 as meant by Dr. Arnold, 
whom I quoted to you; by Mr. Blunt, who on the 
verge of eternity expressed his belief, that less 



260 LETTERS. 

than ten years will accomplish it certainly — of 
some who think that ten months will see it done — 
of many a devout heart, I feel assured, now earn- 
estly praying, that when the trying time shall 
come, he may stand fast in the Lord ; though it 
may be at the cost of all he holds most dear. Now 
I must ask of your justice to read my letter again, 
and see if it will not fully, and in every part, bear 
this explanation as its obvious sense; if it will not, 
then it must have been a very stupidly-compound- 
ed effusion. 

When this time comes, my dear Lady , 

it is not the little band who w 7 ill rally round the 
Lord's forsaken ensign, that will have to deter- 
mine who is, and who is not to be among their 
number: as you seem to think. True, we may 
hope, and trust, and pray; but we must not sleep 
upon our watch-tower in a time of siege. It may 
please God you will not live to see it. I some- 
times hope, and if I might, could wish that I may 
not, — who am a little younger — for it will be 
fraught with grief to many whom I love, if not 
much affecting myself 'personally. We both may 
pray for delay, even if we are hopeless to see the 
ill finally averted; but to suppose that any godly 
person within the Establishment can wish it, pro- 
mote it, purpose it; no, really I could not have 
written any thing that could bear that construe 
tion. I write under a press of occupation, and 
will therefore delay answering all the rest of your 



; 



LETTERS. 261 

kind propositions. With many apologies for this 
haste. 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 

P. S. — My picture of the church of Christ in 
England now, is of a besieged city, (not a rout,) 
of which the weakening garrison, after a brave 
defence, will be ultimately marched out, — I hope 
with their colours flying. • 



LIIL— TO LADY ***** 

March 25, 1843. 

My dear Lady 

If you are ashamed of writing, I am sure I ought 
to be ashamed of not writing ; after all your kind 
communications. I offer but one excuse, because 
I had in fact but one reason for not doing so, viz., the 
having another book in hand, which generally im- 
pedes my letter writing. If there is any difference 
in our view of the sad subject of our correspond- 
ence, it arises wholly, as I think, from the differ- 
ent position from which we view it. You take 
your view from the centre — you see the picture 
in detail — you individualize the effects — you have 
Puseyism embodied, as it were, in those about 



262 



LETTERS. 



you — I may almost say, within you : even at your 
heart's core. Possibly this propinquity may vary 
the bias of your opinions, about as much, and no 
more, than the light summer breeze gives its di- 
rection to the waving corn. I draw from a dis- 
tance, and see only the broad outline, the larger 
features. I never meet with the individuals, ex- 
cept an empty youth, or foolish young girl now 
and then, who meeting me as a stranger of well- 
known sentiments, will seldom venture a talk with 
me by broaching their opinions. Consequently, I 
know less than you of the interior working of the 
system, and am not within reach of personal in- 
fluence. I do not know such persons as you speak 
of, as being converted to seriousness by the Ox- 
ford party ; I think every such case must stand 
upon its individual merits. If the dissipated youth 
is indeed a broken-hearted penitent, learning to 
hate the sin he lately loved, and to renounce it for 
Jesus' sake, he will assuredly not rest always in 
Puseyism ; it may prove to have been the school- 
master that led him to Christ. But if the change 
be only from self-indulgence to self-righteousness, 
an alarmed conscience taking refuge in a formal 
devotion, the convert is no safer than he was be- 
fore. I am not sure that he is not in a more 
dangerous position, by reason of his false security ; 
he is like one, who in a storm of wind, should be- 
take himself for shelter to a baseless roof. It ap- 
pears to me, that these cases,| be they many or 
few, are so very individual, and so impossible to 



LETTERS. 263 

discriminate, that they need not in the least degree 
affect our judgment of the Tractarian influence. 

I think things wear rather a different aspect in 
Ireland than in England ; our pious ministers 
might, if they icould, read the cold formulary to 
the empty benches, while the untaught labourer 
perished in his prayerlessness and ignorance; but 
if any one set about to do what your son does, he 
would be impeached and perhaps suspended for 
altering the service. Our dear pastor has a ser- 
vice for communicants on the Friday before the 
sacrament; but having no place large enough to 
address them except the church, he dares not omit 
the smallest portion of the service, which is not 
the object at all, but a really inconvenient deten- 
tion ; so that we in England are not likely to mis- 
construe daily service. Such a one as yours, with 
a gospel address at the end of it, would be a bless- 
ing everywhere, if the people would go; but in 
England they would not. The Puseyites may say 
vicarious prayers for the people, if they please, but 
nothing will take the English poor to church 
bodily, but a good stirring gospel sermon. I say 
not this of the rich, they will do anything, rather 
than renounce the world, and its affections, and 
lusts; as required by the gospel. Truly you say, 
exterior trifles of dress &c, do not signify in them- 
selves. Intrinsically we should not care to choose 
between the tri-color and the drapeau-blanc ; but 
when they were the insignia of legitimacy and of 
usurpation, they did signify. I fear it is so now 



2(34 LETTERS. 

between the black gown and the white : and we 
must not hoist the enemy's colours in the day of 
battle, or follow them. This is, I think, the whole 
extent of the difference in our views. I would 
rather you were right, for then the case is not so 
bad as I think: and so God grant it may be. 
Be assured you never wrote one word that gave 
me anything but pleasure. I have never heard 

anything whatever as to Dr. T , but I know 

a quarter in which I am likely to learn when oc- 
casion serves. I do not know anything of the 
circular you speak of respecting Puseyism *.*,# 

Mr. , of whom I think you ask me somewhere, 

though I cannot find the passage, has a district 
church in Greenwich, and is the Editor of the 

6 C R ,' the most bitterly anti-evangelical 

periodical, and he is the strongest Tractarian in 
our neighbourhood. Personally, I do not know 
him, for we are understood as exclusive here ; and 
it is one advantage of authorship, that people 

know both Mr. 's mind and mine too well to 

ask us to meet. If, in speaking to this, I am 
answering an inquiry made by somebody else, ex- 
cuse it, as a confusion in my mind. I have not 
yet received your book. Again begging you to 
believe you never wrote an unsuccessful letter, 
and hoping you will oblige me with many more, 

believe me, my dear Lady , 

With esteem and affection, yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 






LETTERS. 



265 



LIV.— TO LADY ***** 

April, 1843. 

My Dear Lady , 

I have become so much accustomed to the in- 
dulgence of receiving your letters, I almost take 
it to heart when they cease to come, though I feel 
the fault is with myself on most occasions. I have 
to thank you for your books, duly received ; and 
really valuable in my opinion. If your gentle re- 
monstrances will not stay the torrent, they may 
rescue many a pious spirit from its headlong course. 
I will tell you anything I hear about it; but shall 
be much surprised that any thing objectionable can 
be pointed out. Our world is sadly dividing upon 
books, as well as every thing else; so that Seeley 
says there are just two sets of buyers, one for 
his books, &c, and the other for Burns', &c. 
Still there is and ever must be, a middle class of 
readers, who have come to no decision ; and dip 
into both urns w T ith their eyes shut, for the chance 
of whatthey may draw up. It is thisclassthat I hope 
may lay their hands on both your books, and be 
profited thereby. On your responsibility, in pub- 
lishing, I am sure that you at least may be at rest ; 
for harm they can never do to any one. My wri- 
ting has not progressed much of late, owing to a 
very little indisposition, and a good deal of earthly 
care. Meantime, I believe we only desire to be 
23 



2g5 LETTERS. 

directed rightly, in what we do ; and to be relieved, 
if it maybe, from anxiety about the future; to 
which end, grant us your prayers. I assure you, 
I more welcome than resist your " good words, 
and comfortable" about the church. The May 
meetings, though I go not to them, I hear have 
taken a very satisfactory tone this year ; firm, de- 
termined, zealous and affectionate; — what passed 
in the House is also thought to bear a favourable 
aspect. It is said that the strong opposition to the 
Factory Education Bill, has warned the govern- 
ment of increasing distrust of the Establishment, 
on account of Tractarian influences in it. But 
perhaps you know more of these matters than I 
do. If you meet with any works you think it 

would do good to review for the , will 

you kindly point them out to me ? 

I do fully concur in all you say, respecting the 
treatment of the erring in personal and indivi- 
dual intercourse, whenever opportunity occurs, 
though I deprecate every concession made to the 
party or to their principles, by word or deed, in 
general conflict ; and on the open field — in the 
pulpit, in waiting, or however else. Even there 
we may earnestly contend for the truth, without as- 
sailing persons or parties directly ; but we may not 
modify and dress it, to avoid giving them a wound, 
or driving them away still farther from the Gos- 
pel. So I think, but still agree with all you have 
said, upon our communications with the misled, 



LETTERS. 



267 



and the misleading individually. Excuse all this, 
and grant me the pleasure of hearing from you. 
Most truly yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LV.—TO LADY ***** 

August 25, 1843. ' 



My dear Lady 



I too had thought the hiatus unusually long, 
which only shows how much you have humoured 
me heretofore. I was apprehensive lest it might 
be caused by increase of anxiety for your precious 
grandson ; and am delighted it was only the idle- 
ness, or rather relaxation, — for I do not believe 
that the first word ever applies to you, — of domes- 
tic pleasures. I perceive that I agree much more 
with you about the Millennium than with those 
from whom you differ. I do not think it so near 
as many do; and have a perfect persuasion of its 
being the seventh thousand of years: but then our 
dates are not sufficiently certain, to rest the calcu- 
lation upon. I wholly agree with you in the re- 
jection of those limited views of the Millennial 
kingdom : of which indeed I was not aware. I 
think too, assuredly, that all present things will be 
at an end; churches, ministrations, &c, all that 
characterizes the dispensation of the Spirit, which 



2g8 LETTERS. 

will itself be ended ; but perhaps I anticipate a 
sudden termination, at the coming of the Son of 
man; you a gradual overthrow preparatory there- 
to. It may be so. I profess to know nothing. 

I cannot define the C 's views of baptism, 

because it does not seem to me they can do it them- 
selves, owing perhaps to more than one person 
having treated the subject therein ; and it is indeed 
not many of the via media people who can say 
what they mean. Like Armitage, they often think 
to rid themselves of the difficulty by inventing a 
new definition ; which turns out to be only a new 
term, that really defines nothing. As I hold what 
are called extreme views, they are easily enough 
explained; though it may be thought not so easily 
proved. Calvin never cleared his language, what- 
ever he did his views, of scholastic obscurity. 
Query : When he says infants are regenerated in 
baptism, does he mean water baptism, or baptism 
of the Holy Ghost, which may not accompany the 
ceremony; but which ceremony without it is no 
baptism in his mind? Or when he says regenera- 
tion, does he mean being born again of the Spirit 
unto life? It is quite certain the school-men used 
the word in a very different sense ? These ques- 
tions I cannot answer, being little acquainted with 
his writings. My view is different any way; for 
I believe nobody is entitled to be baptized at all, 
except on the assumption that they are regenerate, 
of which the required faith and repentance are the 
evidences received on profession from the adult, — 



LETTERS. 269 

in hope and charity from the infant. If the as- 
sumption be a false one, there is (in Scripture lan- 
guage) no baptism, but an empty sign of a non- 
existent thing, the invalid half, if I may so speak, 
— a seal set upon nothing. If I am right in sup- 
posing previous regeneration to be required of them 
that come to be baptized, it is plainly not baptism 
that confers it. You will perceive I thus make 
water-baptism nothing in the world but a recogni- 
tion of a fact, and not the doer of it. If ever the 
Scripture seems to speak of baptism as more, I be- 
lieve it means the baptism of the Holy Ghost and 
fire; and it is probable many of our older writers 
meant so too. As to the language of our church, 
I give it up, and stand upon her intentions, to be 
'learned by weighing together the whole of her tes- 
timony. If she requires faith and repentance of 
them that come to be baptized, she requires the 
fruits of regeneration ; and therefore cannot intend 
to confer that of which she requires the fruits be- 
forehand. What unregenerate heart ever repented 
or believed? Of the other sacrament, I take just 
the same view ; the bread and w T ine are nothing-, 
as the water is nothing, but the emblems, if the soul 
is previously united to Christ, it feeds on Him, not 
them — if it be not, it receives nothing. I have thus 
expressed my views in brief, as I have fully in my 
last work, " Christ our Law." It accords with 
those of Dean Milner, and others of his time, who 
exhausted the controversy, which we are reviving 
so painfully. I agree with you, both in judgment 

23* 



270 LETTERS. 

and in apprehension, about that master-piece of 
Satan — apostolical succession; may I not rather 
write, that master lie? * * * * I am glad 
to hear you have kept something of a journal, it 
must be valuable. There is one thing excites my 
curiosity, but I do not ask : It is, — I cannot think 
how old you are. 

My life has been peculiar, in nothing so much 
so as my conversion ; as unsought as Saul's of 
Tarsus, and far more resistant. I had no religion 
when you saw me. Perhaps that was the reason 
you refused me. I can remember nothing about 
our interview, but my disappointment: and I was 
too light-hearted to care a great deal about that. 
I think I wanted to go to Ireland. Unhappily I 
never kept a diary, or a memorandum of any kind ; 
unless others have kept letters, there can be no 
material for my life but in my memory; but seven- 
teen year's almost daily correspondence with my 
precious husband, will suffice for that period. 
These are preserved, but cannot be used in his 
lifetime. Up to that period, I shall put down from 
memory; there is little to relate since, in the quiet 
tenour of domestic happiness. God mercifully veils 
the future. Don't think me conceited, but God must 
have his glory in my salvation : there will be none 
to me — if the story is told rightly — but shame from 
first to last. Small ground for exultation, if I have 
had ten talents and paid the usury for only five. 
You, I am sure, will not construe this expression 
into a boast, nor disbelieve that the writing of it 



LETTERS. 



271 



fills my eyes with tears. I know my mental pow- 
ers to have exceeded the results: and if I write 
my life, instead of affecting to underrate them, I 
will say so : for it is to this hour my heart's grief, 
and will be to the end, my grief of griefs. It is so 
much so, so abidingly so, that any allusion to my 
talents goes through my heart like a sharp sword: 
producing an almost involuntary cry for pardon. 
I see so much more done, even noic, by those who 
have less mental power than I have, to say nothing 
of the past. This is a terribly long gossip : but a 
proposed fit of idleness at the sea-side has been de- 
layed a few days, and so left a vacuum. I think 
to be at Dover, but not more than three weeks, 
from Saturday next. Everywhere, believe me, 

dear Lady , 

Your affectionate and obliged, 

Caroline Wilson. 



272 LETTERS. 



LVI.— TO LADY ***** 

November 1, 1843. 

My dear Lady , 

It is a too long time again, since I have written 
to you ; one of the evils of which is like that of put- 
ting aside a book, one forgets where one left off. 
But yours is before me, and I must first say, that 
it really comforts me to find you are not older. Per- 
haps you will not thank me, for this sort of self- 
congratulation. You must needs be very weary, 
on so rough a road, although it has been no longer 
a one; but the double generations over whom your 
life has so near an influence, and so dear an inter- 
est, will prevent your counting impatiently the 
other ten ; if it so please your Father you are to 
reach the natural age of man. Thank you, very, 
very much for the brief recital of your spiritual 
life. It is deeply interesting, just one of those that 
for God's glory, and most sovereign love, should 
be remembered and recorded. Whatever may be 
the advantage, — and there is much of early reli- 
gious habits and impressions, by parentage and 
education, — there is the advantage on the side of 
adult and more sudden conversions, that they give 
an experimental witness to the doctrines of the 
gospel, much more difficult to shake than opinions 
otherwise imbibed. The "I know that I have 



LETTERS- 273 

passed from death to life ;" is seldom in these cases 
assailable by human doubts and difficulties; or the 
mode and manner of the purpose, likely to become 
obscured, by the confusion of human disputation. 
Furthermore, such conversions do and must en- 
hance our knowledge, of the " preciousness of 
Christ," — "love much for much forgiven." 

I am pleased again to find how little we differ, 
I think I may say, not at all, on the two subjects 
alluded to ; Baptism and the Second Coming. The 
reason, I suppose, that mine are called extreme 
views, or that I at least, took possession of the 
word on my own behalf, is that among the persons 
called evangelical, (who would be included in the 
Puseyite term, low church,) there has arisen a con- 
fused, higgledy-piggledy notion of they. know not 
what efficacy in the sacrament as such. Some 
confine it to the children of believers, some ascribe 
it to the faith of the sponsors ; the most part mean 
nothing at all by it, only they w 7 ill have it so ; and 
dispute for words, against those who give a 
straight-forward avowal of just their own senti- 
ments in plain terms. B 's book is the strong- 
hold of these confounders; and since the advance 
of Puseyism, all the moderados have betaken them- 
selves to this confusion, in order to find shelter 
from the thunders of the church; and call all ex- 
treme who will not be puzzled too. So being of no 
such mind myself, for playing hide and seek, I took 
up the word these trimmers throw behind them, 
without very much care on whom it falls, so they 



274 LETTERS. 

escape the opprobrium of " low church" by prov- 
ing an alibi for themselves. A name is shorter 
than an argument, and often does as well. 

Poor S has certainly returned, from Rome, 

but to what ? That is hard to guess ; but he has 
expressed his conviction, that Rome is Babylon, 
and her worship of the Virgin, idolatry; and on 
that confession has re-communicated with us. 
More I know not. I know no more of the Chris- 
tian Union Association than I learn from the 
Record ; I think its tendency surely is to what you 
desire : a willing movement toward that union 
perhaps, which God alone can accomplish, or 
which I, at least, can anticipate only from a forci- 
ble separation of his people from all others. I still 
do not know, as I did not when you named it here- 
tofore, any such movement toward separation in 
the church as you have heard of, nor can tell in 
what papers you have seen the apparent effort 
making. Every English churchman with whom I 
have spoken, without one exception, regrets the 
separation in Scotland, and considers it a mistake. 
True, our hearts are with them, for they are the 
brethren in Christ, suffering for conscience' sake, 
as they believe; but our judgment is against them, 
universally, as I believe. That many expect a 
similar separation among ourselves, is another 
thing; expectation is not intention. Noah expect- 
ed the waters* and prepared; he neither wrought 
for them, nor invoked them. Surely it must be 
from the church's enemies you hear of these inten- 



LETTERS. 



275 



tions ; I mean from Dissenters or Puseyites. The 
only other quarter I can think of, is that of the 
Plymouth Brethren ; but that is too inconsiderable 
and unstable a party to be worth the name of se- 
cession, — true godly souls as I believe they most- 
ly are. 

I am rejoiced to hear no worse a report of your 
little grandson, and trust the precious loan may be 
prolonged. 

I hope I shall soon hear from you again. I wish 
among other things, to know if you are safe. You 
will be sure I feel with you respecting your two 
sons' opposing notoriety in the conflict, and read 
with peculiar interest every mention of their 
names: not without apprehension that it may at 
this moment be adding to your many cares. 
Believe me with 

True affection, yours, 
Caroline Wilson. 



276 



LETTERS. 



LVII.—TO LADY *****. 

January 8, 1844. 



My dear Lady 



If any thing can heighten the interest of your 
letters to me, it is their containing matters so 
deeply interesting to yourself, as the subjects of 
your last. Being a great newspaper reader, and 
having you always in mind, I remark your son's 
progress with painful attention, and look out for 
his name, as if it belonged to me. Mr. M — — , in 
his sermon yesterday on Abraham's trial, said 
many things that might have comforted you ; but 
I am bad at repeating, having no verbal memory: 
the main purport was, that the blessings attached 
to affliction are not direct, else they would be most 
blest in hell : but the use of trial is, to put the mind 
in a fit state to receive a blessing — a state of hu- 
mility, submission, and confidence. This is better 
effected by not seeing the purpose of God in it, 
which is comparatively a small exercise of faith. 
Abraham could have no idea why he was to slay 
his only child, nor may another father, whose only 
child is slain or taken from him ; thence came the 
simple and pure faith, which fitted Abraham to re- 
ceive the greatest blessing God himself could con- 
fer, but only such faith made him capable of enjoy- 
ing. Are you not in Abraham's case, with respect 
to your son, and perhaps your grandchild too? 



LETTERS. 



277 



1 feel some confidence that we should agree 
about particular and general redemption, if we 
could first define our terms. I don't know Lu- 
ther's letter, or forget it; there is in some Calvinis- 
tic writers a hard, cold mode of setting forth these 
most precious doctrines, which is anything but like 
the way in which the Scripture gives them, and 
God intends them. " If Christ did not in any sense 
die for all mankind, why, I ask, is there a human 
soul at this moment out of hell?" said our preacher 
the other day. If Christ, in dying, redeemed all 
mankind, why is there a human soul in hell ? The 
tw T o questions will fence both sides, and swamp hu- 
man reason, if you please, between them, for there 
is no way out To the believer, there is no experi- 
mental difficulty, but most abundant blessedness in 
the mystery of the divine purpose; but it is as you 
truly say, an incommunicable certainty. Old Wil- 
liam Howells was used to say, " Never mind these 
doctrines now 7 ; w r ait till you cannot do without 
them. Whenever you fully know the iniquity of 
your own heart, you will find you cannot be saved 
without election.'' I confess myself very grateful, 
however, for having had this point settled for me 
experimentally at the beginning, by the manner of 
my conversion, and so I think had you. 

I wish I had written sooner, as I am rather 
anxious to hear from you again about yourself. 
That I did not, as I wish I had done, was occa- 
sioned by mere press of writings in getting a book 

to press, and reviewing for the . If vou 

24 



278 



LETTEK3. 



meet with it, my articles are on Dr. C 's Insan- 
ity, &c, Charlotte Elizabeth's Wrongs of Women, 
and a book, which I believe must be written by an 
Irishman — a Roman Catholic undisguisedly — per- 
haps you know 1 " Rome, Pagan and Papal." It 
is laughably mischievous, or mischievously laugh- 
able. I wonder if you ever got your MS. from 

C E , which was the happy first occasion 

of my hearing from you. Her odd marriage turns 
out very well, I believe really happily; but she is 
going quite beside herself about the Jews : her last 
publication is painful to think of, as coming from 
so useful and respected a pen. 

I suppose I am safe in using your last address. 
How does your book succeed? Believe me, dear 

Lady , 

With great esteem, yours, 

Caroline Wilsoiy. 



LVIIL— TO LADY *****. 

February 14, 1844. 



My dear Lady 



My gratitude must weigh against my ill-deserv- 
ing, for your long and acceptable letter. A new 
book in hand, and a too cold house, which dulls 
down my faculties most miserably, have made me 
to be so great a defaulter of late. The thought of 



LETTERS. 279 

your having been ill, stimulates my self-reproach, 
which can only be appeased by writing immedi- 
ately. Upon the subject-matter on which your 
mind is so ill at ease, I will only now tell you what 
I think myself; perhaps of some better authorities, 
as I meet with them, hereafter. I have not seen 
the book you speak of, but it is not a new thought 
to my mind, nor a new subject of discussion in my 

circle. Mr. would, I think, agree with what 

I am about to say exactly: and so would my here- 
tofore pope, William Howells, who cleared my 
brain on that and many other points. Now what 
/ think, — for I speak of myself, and for myself 
alone, — is, that Christ died for the whole of hu- 
manity, to the extent of removing from every one 
the guilt and punishment of imputed, original, or 
birth-sin, as it is variously called ; so that nothing 
but actual sin w 7 ill be brought into judgment 
against any one. Now if this be so, no child who 
dies before the age of responsibility, can perish; 
from imputed sin it is freed by the death of Christ; 
of actual sin it has not been capable. Into con- 
demnation therefore it cannot come: to hell it can- 
not go. Now there is only one alternative; it 
must go to heaven — to glory. But while the re- 
mission of the original penalty of sin is thus made 
sure to the entire justification of the guiltless babe, 
by the work of the Son, on behalf of all mankind; 
the principle of sin derived from Adam remains, 
unless the Spirit also does His work; the fallen na- 
ture cannot go to heaven; the babe must be sane- 



280 LETTERS. 

tified as well as justified; it must be born again. 
We assume, therefore, that those who die in infan- 
cy, are as necessarily regenerated by the Spirit, 
as they are justified in Christ. If you say this is 
inference only, and not proved, I think the latter 
position can be proved from Scripture, and that 
the former is a certain conclusion from it. It will 
be at once apparent, that if this is the process of 
infant salvation, there can be no difference be- 
tween one child and another; an unconscious babe 
can neither lose nor acquire capability of sin by 
surrounding light or darkness. When the Bible 
tells me that Christ's blood was shed for the sins 
of Christendom, I will believe the remission of 
Adam's sin so limited ; but while it is written, "the 
sins of the whole world," I can draw no lines of 
demarcation. As to supposing that a child is saved 
by Christian parentage, or Christian baptism, it is 
to me the purest fiction that human fancy ever in- 
vented : and something worse ; for it is of the very 
essence of antichrist, making another Saviour, an 
earthly depositary for the benefit of the death of 
Christ ; another "pair of keys," to lock and unlock, 
to kill and to make alive, which I would as soon 
trust to the " holy father" of Rome, as to the "holy 
mother" of England, or any ordinance or parent- 
age therein. I find no such thing in Scripture; 
1 Cor. vii. 14, having, to my mind, no relation to 
the salvation of a child. As to that Protean per- 
sonage called "The Church," when she can be 
produced, we may come to some better under- 



LETTERS. Ogi 

standing of her mind; at present her sons are all 
at variance, unable to decide on what she says: 
still less what she means; and should these be 
brought to agreement from Exeter to Chester, or 
the Shetlands, the all-important question would re- 
main; If she be right, or wrong? I do not think, 
however, that the view we speak of is impugned 
by the expressions you quote ; we all suppose them 
to be, by nature, the children of wrath; the ques- 
tion is, whether that nature has been changed by 
grace. In respect of burial, I hope "our mother" 
knows it has as little to do with salvation as bap- 
tism has; the one is the door of admission, the 
other of egress, to the professing church; there 
is abundant profession without faith, there can 
scarcely be faith without profession ; and such can- 
not be accepted of the church unless it be made; 
how r then can she bury an unbaptized adult? But 
nothing of this applies to infants; and for once only 
I can agree with Henry of Exeter, that it is very 
odd that people, who do not care to be baptized 
into the church, should wish to be buried from out 
of it. I have not quoted from Scripture, because 
your own two passages, 1 Cor. xv. 22; and Rom. 
v. 18, are the strongest I can recal to the estab- 
lishment of my view, though assuredly not alone. 
All this is struck off in haste, because I would not 
delay to acknowledge yours, and inquire' not un- 
anxiously, about your health. And this was the first 
subject of your letter, thoug i there are many more 
that should be answered; whereas there is no point 
24* 



282 LETTERS. 

on which my mind is more thoroughly made up 
and made clear, to my own apprehension. 

More I cannot write now ; but soon again. I 
feel much for your family griefs and apprehen- 
sions. May they be blessed, or averted ; and why 
not both ? It has been to invalids dangerous 
weather, I apprehend. May you at least be spar- 
ed to the many who cannot spare you. Indeed I 
shall not fail to be delighted with the shawl you so 
kindly propose to send; but why so kind to the un- 
worthy 1 

Farewell — God and good angels guard you, in 
sickness or in health. Ever believe me, 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 

P. S. Your last book is going to rebuke Tracta- 
rianism in Petersburgh. 



LIX.~- TO LADY ***** 

March 8, 1844. 

My dear Lady — — — 
The book is finished, and the review gone to 
press, and I must give myself a holiday to write 
to you, or I shall never tell you what you wish. 
Your last kind letter made me sorry, as it implied 
that I must have expressed myself, otherwise than 



LETTERS. 



283 



I meant ; since it produced regret on your part, 
for what you had written. I certainly did not 
think there was the least objection to the discuss- 
ing of the subject between us, or any others of 
like mind, sedate and reasonable ; but I did think 
M- 2 — - rash to put the thought in print, for the 
weak-minded and apprehensive. Whatever I said, 
this was what I meant. The " legitimate bound- 
ary" I spoke of, was not of "inquiry" into God's" 
ways ; but that while we may say God permits evil 
and sin for his own good purposes, we may never 
say or suppose he can for any purpose, be the 
occasion of it. I fear that remark led you to sup- 
pose, that I thought the discussion of the subject 
unwise ; which I did not. Having set this matter 
right, I scarcely need say next, how much I should 
like to see you ; and yet I have felt just as you do 
— the disappointment that always comes of a 
drawing-room interview 7 — where people have pre- 
viously expected much. In my own case, it is 
sure to come ; by my natural and total want of 
tact and self-possession, which makes nothing of 
me at all times, except after long intimacy. In- 
deed, my want of confidence in conversation, even 
with the simplest and the meanest, limits my use- 
fulness almost wholly to my pen, and is at times a 
great grief to me; especially since reputation has 
given a weight to my counsels, which might make 
my words useful, if I could only get them out. 
The fact is, I am in every sense of the word timid. 
All this does not mean that I will not see vou, if 



284 



LETTERS. 



you will allow me ; in any manner that may be 
most agreeable to you. 

I want to tell you what you ask about myself; 
but how shall I convey a just impression of what 
I was when mercy found me, in few enough words 
for a letter ? For years I had never bent my knee 
in prayer, or any way recognized the existence of 
a God. I hated, and knew I hated — which is not 
commonly the case — the very name of God. Mine 
was an understanding enmity. I knew not only 
what is in the written word, but even the shades 
and colourings of opinion, in the construction of 
it. I had heard the Gospel and read controversy, 
as I read every thing else; and had even made up 
my mind, that if there were any thing in it at all, 
the Calvinists were right. But I believed it was 
all fiction together, and beneath an intellectual 
being, to be troubled about at all. Happily, I was 
always modest, and therefore I never gave utter- 
ance to my opinions. I believe even my brothers 
and sisters had no idea of more than absolute zn- 
difference to religion. It was far more — indiffer- 
ence has no existence in my nature — it was hatred. 
My brother, though he knew nothing of this, said 
of me that I was the most hopeless of his family. 
"There is the pride of intellect, that will never 
come down," was his expression. I delighted to 
hear the name of God and the truth of God made 
a jest of; but as to disliking the people of God, or 
saying anything to pain them, I should as soon 
have thought of hating a man for believing or dis- 



LETTERS. 



285 



believing the Copernican system. You must guess 
the rest, or I shall never end ; at the time of con- 
version, I was in a clergyman's family in Lincoln- 
shire, — of the true old-fashioned high-church, in its 
coldest, stupidest, most inoffensive character. Mrs. 
Trimmer was their whole gospel. The necessity 
of going to church, the necessity of hearing the 
Bible read by my pupils, was to me a painful and 
degrading task; which could not but betray itself, 
though words they heard not from me about the 
matter. I held them, I fear I treated them, who 
only admired and petted me, in sovereign con- 
tempt. Without a shade of real religion them- 
selves, they were of course shocked at my manifest 
disregard, of what they called so : but they never 
spoke to me upon it. 

At this time, I violently attached myself to a 
lovely young woman of my own age, daughter of 
a neighbouring clergyman. After my manner, I 
wrapped myself up in this one satisfaction — my 
idol for the time being. I invested her with ail 
the excellences she had or had not; no matter 
what she really was, (about which I have no clear 
opinion:) quite certain it is that she had no know- 
ledge of true religion at all, and never pretended 
to have, and despised the Gospel of Ch*rist to the 
full as much as I did. But she had a religion — 
a sentimental desire for a better world, such as 
comes simply of disappointment in this. My in- 
ferior mentally, she surpassed me in the very 
thing I prided myself upon; — philosophy — in the 



286 



LETTERS. 



conduct of ordinary life, to be above circum- 
stances, misfortunes, disappointments, and all man- 
ner of " this world's wrongs," which we used to 
set ourselves to abuse, while we read Young's 
Night Thoughts, to avenge ourselves. In short, 
she always behaved well and acted properly, and 
spake wisely; while I, with all my knowledge and 
philosophy, was "a wild ass's colt:" with a mind 
beyond my own control, or that of any body else, 
and too artless to wear the guise of any thing I 
was not. I saw her advantage, and spoke often 
to her of it, lamenting my own want of self-con- 
trol and submission to circumstances. This 
finally occasioned her, not having courage to 
speak to me of my want of religion, to write me a 
a letter, remonstrating with me upon it, and assur- 
ing me it was religion alone that gave her that 
advantage over me, which I so much admired 
and coveted. Now I can fully say that in this 
letter was no mention of Christ — no reference to 
the Spirit — no one word of the gospel method of 
salvation, or anything that might not have been 
said by a Socinian or a Deist; any one who be- 
lieved in an over-ruling God, or a future state of 
happiness or misery. 

On first reading it, my indignation knew no 
bounds : It was an insult upon my understanding 
— a presumption upon my friendship; I sat down 
and answered in all the bitterness of w 7 ounded 
pride, and unrestrained contempt. It happened 
the letter could not go that day, it was some miles 



LETTERS. 



287 



off and nobody could take it. The next day — O 
what a day was that — I must not make remarks, 
but merely state facts. I felt that I was moved, 
shaken. What shame, what degradation; I, even 
/moved by such things as these! impossible. I 
could have buried my head in the earth for shame 
and humiliation. The only comfort was, nobody 
could ever know it. But this changed my purpose ; 
— if I was to seem unmoved, why should I be 
angry? I burned the letter and wrote another, 
very kind, very dignified, very philosophical and 
high-minded, but quite indifferent, of course. It 
happened again the letter could not go, but my 
conflict was now with God ; I loathed, I scorned, 
I refused, I told the blessed Redeemer, who by his 
Spirit was contending for me, that I would not 
yield — I would not have him — I would not be his. 
Words are not adapted to describe things like 
these, that pass between spirit and spirit without 
voice or word ; and yet are more real than words 
could make them. I hated my friend for telling 
me; I hated myself for caring about what she 
said: but Oh! I hated most the blessed One who 
was thus trying to force upon me the degradation 
of his name. It was soon over ; on the third day 
I wrote another letter ; I owned the precious truth 
of what she had reproached me with; avowed my 
altered purpose, and acknowledged my obligation 
to her. Beyond that, I said nothing to any body 
at the time — they would have only mocked and 
and wondered and taken me for mad, and mv 



288 LETTERS. 

friend would have been foremost in that opinion. 
All that they saw was, that I had become religions 
— that is, I read the Bible. 

I became ill, and was almost immediately re- 
moved. But from that third day, all was changed 
to me ; I read, I praised, I prayed, I rejoiced with 
joy unspeakable. I had nothing to learn as to the 
nature and manner and meaning of the change. 
I knew all that before, as a fiction ; it was now an 
experimental truth. From that time Jesus was 
mine, and I was his; but Oh ! what a soil it was 
for the seed to grow in ! what a time before it 
could be wrought upon to profit; all to do, all to 
undo, and everything in the natural character 
against the work. However, you know the issue; 
it was hard work He undertook at first, and has 
been hard to the last. I have defeated Him, dis- 
honoured Him, denied Him, practically, never pro- 
fessedly, a thousand, thousand times ; but from 
that hour to this, I have never doubted Him. How 
could I? Had Paul himself more evidence than 
I had? No, for he had never been w 7 hat I was, 
and he made no resistance. The recital is long, 
my time is gone; I leave you to make the com- 
ment on the bare text; but it may interest you to 
know, that my friend subsequently married a dig- 
nitary of the church, of high birth and indifferent 
character; forgot in her change of fortune, her 
preference of another world ; affected fashionable 
life, derided all I said to her and wrote to her 
about the change, of which she had been the in- 



LETTERS. 289 

strument; till, as my religious profession grew, 
being really unacceptable to herself, and offensive 
to her worldly irreligious husband, our acquaint- 
ance was broken off; and I know only by com- 
mon report, that she died last year suddenly 
while dressing for a ball. Thus God has secured 
the whole glory to himself, there was none to the 
creature on any side. But I must break off here, 
and if I have omitted anything in your letter, that 
should be noticed, it shall be so hereafter : — The 
subject always overwhelms me; — meantime, be- 
lieve me, 

Very sincerely and affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LX.—TO LADY ***** 

April, 1844. 



My dear Lady 



I delayed answering your last kind note, to find 
if any one here knew Mr. well enough to de- 
sire him to call on you, which of course he would 
be well-pleased to do, if he knew you wished it. I 
do not know him, nor have I yet found any one 
who does. By report, I suppose he is the most 
evangelical in your part; whether up to our mark 
of divine orthodoxy, I am not sure, I never heard 
25 



290 LETTERS. 

him. I believe he was a convert from Rome ori- 
ginally, and is certainly of good repute. 

As to Mr. B , I like none of all the things 

you speak of. " There is a way, that seemeth 
good unto a man," &c. We might say, it cannot 
be a bad way that gets a worldling out of bed, 
takes him to church, brings him within hearing, 
&c. ; but is it so? Has not this been the way of 
Antichrist, from the beginning? Does not Satan 
know, that he has a stronger hold through the se- 
curity of a false religion, than in the felt risk of no 
religion. Is not experience against our conclu- 
sions in this matter. I like your " words" from 

Abp. W on the unedifying use of Scripture. 

However, if I liked to go to church at eight 
o'clock, which I do not, I should abstain from it 
now, as I should from wearing a certain coloured 
ribbon at an election-time, which might please 

my fancy at any other period harmlessly. B 

is \ery notorious, and has made efforts to go 
farther, but was checked, either by the bishop or 
the people, as is stated variously. The eleven 
o'clock service, is a choice good luck, to the fair 
faneantes of the West End; to ease them of a 
morning or two per week. 

I am half tempted to ask, if I may send my hus- 
band to call on you some day. You would like 
him better than me; — everybody does; and they 
are right. But do not say Yes, if you had rather 
not be disturbed by strangers. I shall go on 
hoping to see you in some way. We are going, 



LETTERS. 291 

as I expect, to Tunbridge Wells on Monday next, 
for ten days at the utmost. 

My new book is not christened. If you ever 
drive to Seeley's, ask him about it; for I cannot 
get him on with it. It is but a trifling concern, 
which seems to suit the age. " Too grave," " too 
deep," "too good;" is the bookseller's language 
now. So much for Gresley, Paget and Co. The 
gravest pens must betake themselves to lightness. 
My book is intended for the reading of idle people, 
on a Sunday afternoon ; but I hope there are truths 

in it. Dear Lady 

Very affectionately, 

Caroline Wilsoiv. 



LXL— TO LADY ***** 

May 27, 1844. 



My Dear Lady 



I inclose you C. E.'s answer. I just tore off 
the part of your letter that concerned her, and 
transmitted it without note or comment, on the 
subject-matter of it. You certainly have awaken- 
ed my curiosity too, about Mr. Close, and will tell 
me, if you satisfy your own. I will ask Seeley 
about your friend's book, &c. ; as to reviewing, I 
did ask, and am always obliged for a hint to this 
issue. Writing is as necessary to my brain, as to 



292 



LETTERS. 



my purse: and the greatest part of the difficulty is 
always to find the subject. I am very glad of 
your report of Mr. Burgess ; I never knew before, 
on sufficient authority, on what ground his good 
reputation stood, although I knew he had it. Still 
I wish he did not keep saints' days. I appreciate 
all the bon hommie, as well as Christian love, of 
your method of conformity ; letting every body do 
as they like in things that do not signify; and 
would indeed that that were so, though I appre- 
hend it is hardly compatible with the idea of an 
establishment, even in externals ; however that be, 
it does not seem to me applicable to the case in 
question. Things unimportant in themselves, be- 
come important when they become significant of 
other things. When the wars of York and Lan- 
caster deluged, our land with blood, through great 
part of two centuries, no man, I apprehend, sup- 
posed it was the colour of roses about which they 
were contending; but I am afraid the peace-maker 
who should have adopted your plan, by wearing 
the red rose one day, and the white next, to mark 
his indifference to the colour of a flower, would 
have received a Lancastrian shaft through one 
lobe of his brain, and some Yorkist bullets into 
another ; and verily, if our clergy will be doing the 
same thing, the fault is their own if they be mis- 
trusted on both sides; and have their best inten- 
tions misinterpreted. Blood has flowed, the blood 
of the holiest and the wisest, has flowed abundant- 
ly and widely, about the worship of saints and the 



LETTERS. 



293 



value of ordinances. We cannot plead ignorance 
of Satan's design in all this movement; we might 
know, we do know, that war has been proclaimed 
within our Protestant Establishment, against the 
Protestant faith. It is not we who are on the ag- 
gressive: we made no attack upon the taste of 
others for white and black; Wednesday or Thurs- 
day; fish or flesh. We were at peace, and then it 
did not signify. We are now attacked — besieged 
in our entrenchments; whether under these cir- 
cumstances we should hoist our enemies' colours, 
and cede all our outvvorks at their first summons, 
I must refer you to the Duke of Wellington. My 
own view is, that in decision, not in compromise, 
our path of duty and of safety lies. 

With respect to our intercourse with the party 
in the affairs of common life, I suppose the duty 
must vary with the circumstances. You have ex- 
perienced, more perhaps than any one, the difficul- 
ty of holding spiritual intercourse and conversa- 
tion with them. Where it does not resolve itself 
into disputation and contention, it must be very 
desirable to bring the truth to bear upon the erring 
and deluded proselytes of either form of apostacy; 
but it must still be simple, straightforward, uncom- 
promising truth : or God will not bless it to the 
hearer or the speaker; and in most cases, it is dif- 
ficult to get through without offence. I would not, 
however, discourage the attempt in any one who 
has at once courage and self-possession enough, 
to bear their master's banner unscathed through 

25* 



294 LETTERS. 

the enemies' lies, without making it a call to 
arms; an unavailing strife of words to no good 
issue. 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXIL—TO MRS. * * * 

July, 1844. 
My dear Friend, 

It is due to your love, to tell you among the first 
of the final arrangement of our long expected 
move. Within three weeks, we draw our stakes 
and loosen our cords, to fix our tent elsewhere. I 
hardly know how I feel about it: perhaps as you 
would if you were leaving *.# *; perhaps as a 
donkey does when he has tossed his load on his 
head, and stands kicking his heels up in the air, 
without well knowing what is to follow. Glad, I 
am sure I am, but whether to be eased of superflu- 
ous good, or of the care that for the two last years 
has embittered it, I am not sure. Dishonest indeed 
I have been to my heavenly Father, if I have not 
truly told "Him in every prayer, that I am willing 
to relinquish any temporal enjoyment for the spiri- 
tual advantages I expect. / am willing, I am de- 
sirous: I am very grateful to be allowed the 
change, if this is to be the issue, w 7 hich He only 



LETTERS. 205 

knows, who hears my constant and abiding pray- 
er, to have less of the world, and more of Him 
and His. 

We have taken a very comfortable house at 
, very pleasantly situated, but with no gar- 
den. Only think how I shall enjoy myself when I 
come thence to visit you; and, dear friend, if ever 
you come to visit us, you will take of our fruits 
and flowers, as we of yours, for you shall stay one 
Sunday. Meantime, you must think of me as 
half-distracted with cornices and canopies and 
carpeting; and all longing for a house not made 
with hands, that will not need this trumpery. Till 
this is over, I may not see you, scarce think of 
you — but still be, 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson*. 



LXIII.— TO MRS. * * * 

July, 1844. 
My dear Friend, 
I wanted you to speak to me of your position, 
not because I did not know it, but because until 
you did so, I could not properly speak of it to you, 
to express my sympathy and feelings for you. 
These are greater than my surprise, for I think 



296 LETTERS. 

you have had apprehensions of the kind for some 
time, and many other things gave indication of 
what might come to pass. But farther than this I 
have thought, that if God had purposes of loving- 
kindness towards all or any of you, some such 
thing must come to pass, to arrest a course as pain- 
ful I am sure to you, as grievous to all your friends, 
and ruinous to your dear children. Now the mes- 
senger has come, and you must call the place Bo- 
chim.* And so you will ; and you will think be- 
side, how much severer a message of reproof it 
might have been. There might have been a sum- 
mons without warning; there might have been the 
cutting off of children, in the midst of earthliness 
and error; or you, dear, might have been called 
upon to leave them, uncertain whether they would 
have followed where you go. Now all of these 
things are spared you, and time given for finding, 
or returning, to the way of life. It is a painful, 
very painful dispensation: do not suppose I think 
lightly of it, but I do hope the temporal loss, and 
temporary privation, may be your gain in spiritual 
enjoyment even now, besides the eternal issues af- 
fecting those you love. Be sure that all that con- 
cerns you remains upon our hearts w 7 ith real inter- 
est. If you should remain the summer at , 

and at any time feel that our coming would not be 
oppressive and disagreeable to other parties, we 
should have great pleasure in seeing you there 

* Judges ii. 



LETTERS. 297 

once again. I always find my love grow on the 
declining prosperity of my friends ; I rather think 
it is the character of Christian affection to do so, 
for I believe our gracious Master does the same; 
more tender towards the sick ones of the house- 
hold. But worldly feelings understand not this: 
and you must be candid, and not ask us, if it will 
be unpleasant to any body. I could most wish to 
hear the place was gone, for I know by experience, 
how painful the going is, and how much better 
over. But I tell you how the delay will act to your 
advantage; you will look upon every thing with 
painful feelings, till your heart is wholly weaned 
from them; and then, when the leaving comes, 
instead of being a painful effort to resign them, it 
will be a grateful sense of satisfaction as for a 
great relief. So, dear friend, let your heavenly 
Father manage it in his own w T ay. If you have 
retained the light of His countenance, that is 
enough for you, and for the rest, hope all things; 
striving only to be faithful to them, as you are to 
Him ; and not to do, as He does not, lose his chil- 
dren by too indulgent love. I was, as usual, much 
pleased with - , and much with all she seem- 
ed to feel upon this painful subject. In her, God 
has, I trust, given you an abiding blessing, that 
will, under all circumstances, administer to your 
comfort or consolation. 

Let us try to look on the bright side still, and 
count your gains instead of losses. I do not won- 
der at your temporary depression ; but that will 



208 



LETTERS. 



not return ; it was only to break you into more 
peaceful submission. This done, the opposing bar- 
rier of self-will broken away, the stream will run 
more smoothly : though at limes it swell, it shall 
not overflow, to go over you. " When thou pass- 
est through the waters, I will be with thee." 
Ever affectionately Yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXIV.— TO LADY ***** 

September 14, 1844. 

My dear Lady , 

Much and many thanks for two prompt and 
welcome notes. I shall give all attention to your 
lists, but rather apprehend you are in the wrong 

class of books, for the C ■ . Such as the 

, &c, are too trifling, others too long 

out. Reviews of that sort take only notice of new 

publications; the C only of those that, 

more or less, can be made to bear upon religion ; 
and are of some weight for or against the truth. 
Not tales or novels, I apprehend, unless weight be 
given by the names of men, who write them; as 
was the case with Messrs. Paget and Gresley. 



LETTERS. 



2\)i) 



The thing that most astounds my incapability, is 
how you can read so many sermons. I cannot 
read any; and Seeley would tell you nobody reads 
sermons: as he says to all that propose to print 
them. I do not think more than the brief notices, 

at the end of the C , could be acceptable 

on that head, not worth the work of reading for. 
The only one you have so kindly troubled yourself 
to register, that does not appear to me too old, or 
too trifling for a lengthened review, may be Lady 
C. L ; if, as you say, it is likely to have influ- 
ence: — query whether it can have any, or will be 

heard of, where the is read, which is 

not among fashionables assuredly ; whereas we of 
the graver sort, who read and write, do not re- 
quire information upon works that never appear 
amongst us. You may know otherwise; but I 

have an impression, the only moves 

among the clergy and others, of the more decided 
tone. I will ask S , if Lady C. L is suit- 
able; but, you ask me to tell you, what I hear 
about it: the probability is, I shall never meet an 
individual who has heard of it; so little are such 
books thought of in my sphere. For myself, I de- 
precate religious novels wholly and entirely ; and 
never should open one, but for the specific purpose 
of reviewing. Re-perusing your former letters, I 
can heartily join in your wish, if not your hope 
about field-preaching. Our church is not, in her 
present form, the church of the people, but of the 
upper half of them ; and so it will remain, while 






;> 00 LETTERS. 

the supposed remedy for our need is church-build- 
ing, instead of gospel preaehing. But, alas! the 
tide runs all in that direction, and 1 see no prospect 
of a reflux. I rather anticipate that the dominant 
party will lay the cold hand of formality on all of 
life or utility that is within its reach, until, — I can- 
not, and you will not wish that time arrived — when 
here, as in Scotland, we shall worship in the high- 
ways, for lack of the churches, from which we shall 
be ejected. So speaks my prophetic muse. May 
she prove a lying prophet, is my wish and prayer; 
but, " Give peace in our time, O Lord," is the very 
utmost that my faith can compass, even in the 
prayerful utterance of my wishes. 

It is needless to repeat, that I do not agree with 
your Clericus, as to where our safety and our wis- 
dom lies; having so fully heretofore explained my- 
self to you. I see no authority in the Bible for his 
views. I shall meditate the subject, on which you 
wish me to " write a book, for I terribly want to 
begin one now; and I shall be greatly obliged by 
any explanation of your views about it. Assuredly 
you know that world better than I do now ; though 
once I did, which made the " Listener" so mis- 
chievously efficacious. I rejoice to find you well 
enough to dine en masse. I am too nervous, (vul- 
gariter, shy) for a table d'hote, it takes my appe- 
tite right away ; but I dare say you often find very 
pleasant acquaintance in that manner. Out of doors 
gaiety is by no means so disturbing to me; and I 
delight myself greatly with the drums, trumpets 



LETTERS. 3Q1 

and guns, flying artillery, and battery practice, 
that goes on before my windows every day. 

C. Wilson. 



LXV.— TO LADY *****. 

Woolwich Common, Dec. 16, 1844. 

My dear Lady -, 

While I have not w r ritten to you, I have been 

doing your bidding — smashing Lady C. L 

to my heart's content — shame on her; if she is a 
child of God, if not, I have nothing to say about 
it. It is sensible and well-written, after her man- 
ner, but I wish I had power to extinguish such 
books for ever. You will see what I mean in the 

next ; I w T ish she could read it without 

knowing whence it came. I would not criticise 
minutely what I deprecate wholly — the heller the 
worse is all I can say. To please S , I touch- 
ed on all the other books, which is as you suppose, 
a common practice, where there is something in 
common, and not gone by in time. The worst of 
reviewing such books is the necessity of reading 
them — the pleasure of abusing them is great. 

Do tell me everything you take the trouble of 
thinking about my writing, past, and especially 
future, for I am really at a loss often what to set 

about. Miss F is a near neighbour, but I 

2G 



2Q2 LETTERS. 

have not met her yet, nor do I know her writing. 
I do not think you say truly of yourself respect- 
ing the unconverted. Our feeling towards them 
cannot be too strong; is never, I believe, strong 
enough, at least my own is not; and yet I would 
do any thing to save a soul, if I thought I possibly 
might, in preference to every other work of love, for 
it is surely first. Whether I think the preaching of 
the law in the first instance is the best and likeliest 
method to bring the soul to Christ, is another 
thing; perhaps I do not, but it may be so some- 
times : and I am still thinking of what you suggest, 
and always am delighted and obliged with your 
suggestions, — so pray go on. I am sure your 
walk in life is a very important one, and God has 
especially endowed you for it, to sing the Lord's 
song in a strange land ; where I, alas, should hang 
my silent harp upon the willows — for very sadness. 
How easily would you answer your own question. 
"Why is this?" I wish I could transmit you all 
a sermon I just now heard upon "We have this 
treasure in earthen vessels;" but there is enough 
in the text to solve your problem. If we had it 
always in the fine porcelain of the earth, we should 
straightway fancy there was some value in the ves- 
sel itself; and if it were gilded quite over the base 
clay, we should straightway believe the clay itself 
was gold. Is not God's glory always his first ob- 
ject in those he loves and saves? and does He not 
well to manifest, how little his Pearl can lose or 
gain by the more or less beauty of the setting? 



LETTERS. 



303 



This I say with reference to your first remark, 
about good feeling and high principle in the people 
of the world. I cannot admit the fact generally, 
that those who live in sin are God's people at all, 
whatever they may have professed. False pro- 
fession is truly very painful and disheartening, and 
sends us to the Word, to try our ground again ; 
whether we believe an empty fable. No more 
now, but do write to your 

Most undeserving, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXVI.— TO LADY ***** 

November 22, 1844. 



My dear Lady 



I feel it a long time since I communicated with 
you. I think continually about you, nevertheless, 
wonder how r you are going on ; hope you are get- 
ting more accustomed to your strange position ; 
more cheerful and peaceful under your reverses ; 
more joyful in anticipation, and in memory less 
sad; and then I ask myself why, since I want to 
know all this, I do not write and ask? Thank you 
for all such information given in your last, and do 
believe that you cannot write anything, about your- 
self and yours, that does not wake my sympathy 



304 



LETTERS. 



to pleasure or to pain. It is always a satisfaction 
to me, that I know your island-home ; and where 
you walk, and what you see, and who you live 
amongst. I can imagine winter makes as little 
change in your beauties, as can be anywhere, — 
one great advantage of the sea, and the sea-tem- 
pered atmosphere. Glad I was to hear you had 
achieved anything like a home of your own, that is 
a house to yourself, instead of furnished lodgings. 
I could think of few things, so little likely to be 
mental improvement, as the study of German and 

Italian authors ; wherefore it was I wished 

occupied with something better. Meantime do not 
take my words for more than they mean. She is 
young, unformed, and inexperienced, quite capa- 
ble and quite likely to grow wiser as well as older; 
and to be turned away from the erroneous views 
and dangerous fantasies that now bewilder her. 
But of deep importance, of tremendous importance 
is it, what influence she abides under now, whether 
of companionship or books; for that which makes 
one smile, as the folly of a girl, will make one sad 
indeed as the delusion of a woman. Truly sorry 
I am on her account as well as yours, that the 

S~ s have left you; and so withdrawn the 

better influence of their better minds. May the 
Divine light and grace, dearest friend, make you 
all I once knew you; except in that which cannot 
be restored here, but will be hereafter; and make 
your dear child, all that you once wished her, and 
I once hoped to see her: then we shall be agreed 



LETTERS. 



305 



again in opinion, as we are now in love for each 
other and interest for her. That it will be so I 
hope and expect, because in looking to the future, 
I cannot forget the past. We are all here going 
on prosperously, and I hope thankfully; liking 
Woolwich extremely; and not insensible of our 
great responsibility, if with so much privilege, of 
those that plant and water, and Him that giveth 
increase, we grow not up in daily increasing sta- 
ture, and fulness of Christ. 

Dear Milady, may we meet again ; meantime, 
let there be openness and faithfulness and confi- 
dence, not mystery, between us, even while there 
cannot be agreement. With kindest wishes to the 
young Islander, believe me, 

Ever yours, most affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 

P. S. — There is but one subject, dearest, of your 
letter which must be an embarrassment between 
us; because I cannot speak my mind upon it, 
without giving you pain, at a time when I feel 
that you have pain enough; and yet you must 
feel my silence says as much as if I spoke my 
mind; with more liability of misapprehension. 
Prejudice m my mind, must necessarily be all in 
favour of your child. But after all, there really can- 
not be much mystery between us, about the matter. 
You have known my mind so long and intimately 
heretofore on all matters, but especially on reli- 
gion, and that mind remains so wholly and entirely 



306 LETTERS. 

unchanged, it cannot be unknown to you or any 
wise a secret from you, that your dear child is not 
what / would have her; and in other and better 
days, did confidently hope from her. The misera- 
ble nonsense I saw her read, the mistaken views I 
heard her express, and the influence under which 
I saw her to be thinking, feeling, and acting, gave 
occasion to my earnestly-expressed hope, that her 
new friends would be wiser than her old ones; 
and lead her back to the paths of truth and peace. 



LXVIL— TO LADY ***** 

January 6, 1845. 



My dear Lady 



I cannot think how it is I am so long in writing, 
while the non-arrival of letters from you is to my- 
self so great a miss. Thought rather than time, 
has perhaps been pre-occupied — to say nothing of 
Christmas in London, which slays my intellectual 
being dead. 

I have just lost another of my sometime many 
sisters; for I was at the fag-end of a family often. 
It is no cause of grief, but rather of exalted joy, 
that one so sweet and saint- like, at an advanced 
age, and with nothing to leave on earth, has put 
on a long-expected crown. My only thought of 



LETTERS. 



307 



sadness is something about survivorship in a fast- 
emptying world — a sort of lag-bekind, when so 
many are gone before. We must put away such 
feelings, and be ashamed of impatience in our 
day's work. If I did it better, I think I should be 
less impatient. Enough of self. All compliments, 
good wishes, and bright blessings of the season to 
yourself* 

We are in some spirits about your neighbour of 
Exeter; we shall beat him, and thereby keep other 
meddlers quiet, I trust. It is -encouraging, too, to 
find in the laity so much care about the matter. 
That the people would not become Tractarian, I 
was always sure; and one of the many evils 
therefrom to be anticipated, I thought was, that 
we should have one religion for the people, and 
another for the aristocracy: a calamitous point in 
any nation's history. I scarcely hoped for so 
speedy and spirited a resistance of the first in- 
roads. You will not be so much pleased as I am, 
to see the first battle fought and victory gained, 
over the black and white gown. I have not read 
the " Cross and Crescent." It was ordered for 
our Reading Society, but I believe is to be sup- 
pressed as too free: in which case I shall not see 
it. I am not for reviewing much, having a book in 
hand; only in case of something very desirable. 

We find your Dublin Magazine very intelligent; 
I have forgotten to say, "thank'ye" for it. Let me 
have the pleasure of hearing soon, if only that you 
are well ; and I will try to seem more grateful in 



30g LETTERS. 

future. Reverting to your letter, I see your men- 
tion of Dr. Arnold. Why! you would laugh if you 
could hear all I say about it; because my admira- 
tion exceeds the limit of common parlance, and 
runs riot. It is long since I have or shall so like 
another book; so new, so fresh, so lofty, so pure, 
so independent; but if I were to characterize it 
all in one word, it would be sense. Farewell, I 
hope you will mention the precious child when you 
write. 

Most affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXVIIL— TO LADY ***** 

February 22, 1845. 



My dear Lady 



I must take occasion of the thanks due to you 
for the pretty shawl, just arrived, to perfect my 
answer to your letter. The shawl arrived by post 

two days since, and also a note from Mrs. , 

requesting me to let her know that I received it, 
which of course I did. The workmanship is very 
good, and the texture most delicate; I beg you to 
believe I shall have much gratification in wearing 
it as your gift. For the subject-matter yet unan- 
swered of your last nice long letter — I am not sur- 






LETTERS. 



30!) 



prised that you cannot jfee/ the importance of these 
petty innovations, seeing that to you they are not 

so, being really habituated to such things in ; 

but if any clergyman in England now persists in 
them, contrary to the known habits and wishes of 
an English congregation, it is a perversity impos- 
sible to conceive, if he does not attach importance 
to them; and if he does, that importance stands 
upon the ruinous corruption of our faith. If they 
be insignificant, why offend with them even one of 
the weakest of their flock ; much more, why offend 
the whole weight of public opinion in our country'! 
It is difficult to set limits to mortal absurdity; but 
the man who does this, without an ulterior mean- 
ing, passes my most generous indulgence for his 
folly; and, moreover, exceeds my credulity of the 
fact. You may know otherwise. I forgot in the 
haste of my last, to say that I think the extract for- 
merly inclosed, is very suitable to the times: and 
in effect most true, as to where the danger hides 
itself; and therefore is most dangerous. 

There is an influence again, perhaps, in 

your opinion of Arnold's book, and also a political 
one, which does not weigh so heavily with me. 
A Tory I am, most entirely ; but not having, like 
yourself, others to think for, such matters do not 
affect my estimate of a character, nor my enjoy- 
ment of a book. I do not agree with Arnold in a 
hundred things: but I do admire him more than I 
have done man of woman born for many a day ; 
and have not hesitated to recommend the work to 



310 



LETTERS. 



any one. However, you are not alone ; opinions 
run so high for and against the book, it is danger- 
ous to name it in company, lest you open a fire of 
disputation. Nothing, however, seems to abate 
the vivacity of my enthusiasm in his favour; there 
is no accounting sometimes for peculiar sympa- 
thies with character ; but never to me can super- 
ficial spots upon the disc, be conjured into an 
eclipse. What do you think of the Irish Educa- 
tion schemes 1 

I suppose it is yet doubtful whether the Oxford 

sentence against W is good in law; but 

whether or not, it is a great triumph of the right 
that it has been past. Like another great agitator 
he can only come off on a technicality : which will 
not affect the view 7 of his deserts. The decease 
of the Camden Society is another glorious issue of 

our struggle. Your ■ must be, by your last 

account of him, very little deserving to be ranked 
among the innovators. I cannot but foresee he 
will soon doff their colours, if he still wears them. 

I did not say more about the particular story of 

Sir , because prohibition, not criticism, was 

my object. It matters not what is in it. I wish- 
ed it, and all like it, whether better or worse, un- 
written and unread, which makes of no moment 
the morality of the story, or the lessons it con- 
veys. I feel much as you express yourself of the 
baptismal tract. The man who w r rites it ought not 
to use the baptismal service ; nor he who believes 



LETTERS. 3 | ] 

it ; therefore it is a pity so to enhance the difficul- 
ties of a conscientious minister of our church. 

I hope to hear you are better, and your interest- 
ing invalid at least not worse. What a fearful 
treasure is that sweet child ; but the other is the 
darkest cloud still. 

I wish you would not get up so soon in the 
morning ; I don't like works of supererogation, and 
think it cannot be good for you. Now farewell, 
with many thanks, for all kind words and thoughts 
and deeds. You are the only person who ex- 
tracts a long letter from me, and they but little 
worth : for it is a by-gone talent with me to write 
a letter. Yet I am 

Ever affectionately yours : 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXiX— TO LADY ***** 

May 26, 1845. 



My dear Lady 



I was delighted at sight of your letter, which if 
mine reached you at all, it crossed on the road. I 
am not surprised that you cannot find my felicities 
in the Isle of Wight, any more than my horrors in 
London. All these things depend, most happily, 
on habits, tastes and feelings, infinitely and benefi- 



3}2 LETTERS. 

cently varied according to our health, position and 
estate. I did not think you would find very much 
of higher and better things ; and so it proves. 
The main subject between us this time, is to be 
Mesmerism, you say. Upon this my mind is very 

well made up, in despite of C. E. and Miss M , 

only I do wish that wise women would not write 
nonsense. If Mesmerism has cured anybody of 
anything, as I dare say it has, it is of course avail- 
able as a remedy for disease; and it appears to 
me perfectly absurd, to suppose it less lawful than 
any other means. It is simply a matter of experi- 
ment and fact; and certainly I should try it, if I 
believed in its efficacy ; which would depend not 
on argument but fact, taken not upon opinion but 
testimony. Jit present I believe it is occasionally, 
not generally, efficacious. For all other purposes, 
I believe it a mixture of delusion and imposture. 
I strike off a large part of its wonders, as deliber- 
ate deception ; another part as ignorant delusions ; 
and all that remains, such as real fits of insensi- 
bility, hysterics, somnambulance, that may be 
superinduced on w T eak, sensitive and nervous sub- 
jects, to be perfectly explicable on well-known 
natural principles, without supposing anything 
supernatural. If I believed it more, I should be- 
lieve it unlawful ; but even so, I should avoid it as 
monstrously foolish and dangerous, unless medical- 
ly applied. As to what pious clergymen may write 
or say, it is a fact against which experience can- 
not close its eves, that the grace of God which im- 



LETTERS. 3^3 

parts to his servants so much of better things, 
does not endow them with worldly wisdom, or 
give them sound judgment upon matters not direct- 
ly spiritual ; there is no manner of vagary, by 
which sound and good men have not been for a 
time deluded; and I am fain to confess thereon, 
that their testimony carries w 7 ith it little weight to 
my mind, except it be statements of plain fact, or 
the evidence of their own senses, without note or 
comment. At the same time, I own no sympathy 
with those who, like , &c, refer all such mat- 
ters to Satanic influence. Satan is wiser than his 
instruments, he takes advantage of all human 
follies ; if he invented them he would do it better, 
as I think. So wonderful and curious are the 
operations and influences of nature, nothing of 
that sort passes my belief; but I am, for that very 
reason, slow T to accept evidence of supernatural 
influence. 

#*##### Assuredly your daughter cannot be 
wrong, to try all means with her dear boy, and 
hope and pray to the last. Your new charge is a 
heavy and affecting one. I suspect few are so 
well endowed as yourself, to meet it and fulfil it; 
and wisdom and power, not your own, w T ill assured- 
ly be added unto you. It is an affecting case, and 
yet how much mercy and amelioration in it. May 
God support and guide you, as he will. I don't 
know your house by it's name ; so perhaps it is not 
where I guessed. My writing stands sadly still, 
from seeing too much company; which is not so 
27 



314 LETTERS. 

good for me as thought and paper. In haste and 
bustle still 

Most affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



;lxx.— to lady * * * * * 

July 1, 1845. 



My 



DEAR LiADY 



Time has stolen on, and I have not thanked you 
for a much-desired letter, desired they always 
are ; but most after delay. Reasons about as 
usual with myself, writing and a good deal of 
company in and out, tending to distraction of 
thought. I hope Southampton will agree with you 
better than the Island ; but am accustomed to think 
it a relaxing air, and not healthful. I believe, 
however, these are mostly relative rather than ab- 
stract propositions, according to the constitution 
on which they act. I am quite concerned for 
your many and not light troubles; but do trust that 
they will subside, as the most troubled waters are 
wont to do, at the Divine word. Meantime there 
is no more to say, but "Fear not, for I am with 
thee." 

We are, thank God, much as usual, spared all 
the heavier trials of humanity, and I trust grateful 



LETTERS. 



315 



for health and peace ; but most of all for grace and 
pardon, and a brighter world to come. Next week 
I expect we are going from home, to Folkestone 
first, for about three weeks ; but if you are kind 
enough to write, I shall be anxious for a few 
words of medical report ; and your letters will be 
forwarded wherever I may be. Let me not be 
long ignorant where to find you, at any time. 
Poor Ireland seems to fall from bad to worse, and 
who can even pretend to read the issue? # # # * 
The religious aspect of things looks all of one 
colour, and that a sbmbre one, as if men — rulers 
at least — were determined to level all, and cast 
Truth quite out of the account, till God be pro- 
fessedly, as well as virtually, forgotten ; and all 
distinctions of truth and error denied. This very 
liberalism gives the Puseyites a check, for the pres- 
ent at least. God knows his own purposes in all; and 
will give us, I trust, submission. Oh ! when will 
patience have its perfect work? It is far from it 
still in me. 

I pray God to restore your family to health, and 
to amend your own. Ever believe me, 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



310 LETTERS. 

LXXL— TO LADY ***** 

September 8, 1845. 

My dear Lady 

I was glad indeed to receive your kind note 
yesterday. I had been really anxious, yet was 
afraid to trouble you with inquiry. Thank God 
for your restoration, which most heartily I do, 
though the least of the many who cannot spare 
you. We always feared the Southampton atmos- 
phere for you : but you have had a heavy weight 
of cares as well; and though I believe you are not 
so nervous a person as myself, where is the tem- 
perament that does not more or less suffer bodily 
for the mind's sorrowing and carefulness ? I can 
well believe, that the near vision of eternity at 
hand, has so far lightened them as to increase 
your perception of their nothingness, and reduce 
to a minimum of difference life's best and worst. 
But then you are feeling so much for others, who 
have still a life before them, desolate and bereaved 
of their most precious child. May you be strength- 
ened and comforted, both with them and in them. 
Spare yourself, meantime, from all bodily and 
mental labour that can be dispensed w 7 ith, how- 
ever much it deprives your absent friends of your 
communications. 

Under the circumstances, I feel ashamed almost 
to intrude even this letter upon you, unless I know 



LETTERS. 



317 



something which it would interest you to speak of. 
But oh! how minor interests sink and fade before 
the shadows of earthly sorrow, or lights of un- 
earthly joy; and both ways your thoughts have 
been withdrawn from common converse upon 
common topics. We are just arrived at home 
from our short holiday, at Folkestone first, and 
then at Southborough, my haven of delightsome 
refuge from the dust and brownness of this worn 
and weary region of the habited world ; where 
the oak-tree and the heather cure all my maladies 
of mind and body. In haste and unsettledness, 
therefore, I write to say how anxiously and sym- 
pathizingly I am, * 

Ever yours, 
Caroline Wilson. 



LXXII.— TO MRS, * * * 

September, 1845. 

My dear Friend, 
Truly glad am I to get your note, though in one 
sense it is just too late. We postponed as late as 

we could our promised visit to , in hope to 

hear from you, but could not make up our minds 
to write to you. You will have no difficulty, I 
trust, to understand our feeling in this. We knew 
how many you have to please, and felt the proba- 

27* 



318 LETTERS. 

bility, that at such a time as this, our presence 
might not be agreeable to every body, however 
much so to you. We feared, if we wrote, you 
would not like to refuse us, and that perhaps some 
one would be annoyed, or you embarrassed; so 
that after much talk, and much hesitation, we re- 
solved to give it up, and we only yesterday re- 
turned from . My husband says he 

cannot make holiday again. We have three 
school-girls coming to us to-morrow for Michael- 
mas, and a further reason for us is, you know, 
that we cannot afford as many movements as we 
should like; therefore I fear it must be given up 
for this season, though I confess myself a little 
vexed, that your letter failed by a single day to 

find us at , whence possibly we might 

have stolen just till Saturday or Monday. How- 
ever, we felt, whilst we should have sincerely 
liked to come, some little delicacy about it. I am 
thankful, dearest, for the tone and spirit in which 
you are able to wait. That, I apprehend, is your 
lesson now; and when that is learned, you will be 
taught and enabled to submit It is so our graces 
are maintained, our spirits perfected in Christ : 
here a little and there a little, as we need it, and 
can bear it; but done it must be. "Patience 
must have her perfect work," and no one grace be 
wanting at the last. Happiest they that are the 
aptest scholars, to learn their lesson fastest, and 
be dismissed from tutelage to their most blessed 
home. Do give my love to all, for in some sort I 






LETTERS. ;j]<) 

do feel for all. I have been a little out of health 
this summer, but was much mended by my sojourn 
at Southborough ; and am still further improved 

by the few days passed at . Is it not 

the greatest of all blessings, that you can say, you 
are all well. Let me hear of you now and then, 
for I get thinking of you anxiously sometimes. I 
don't suppose I shall be from home again till 
Christmas: then in town; but I fear you will not 
be to be seen then. Be sure I shall try to see you 
whenever I can, for your trials deepen my feeling 
of interest in you; nevertheless, you have cause 
for great praises still. 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXXIIL— TO LADY ***** 

October 20, 1845. 

My dear Lady 

I do not think I can be happy any longer with- 
out writing to you; and yet not to make you 
write, more than six words. I know how vou are 
occupied, with a too painful certainty, without 
supposing you ill. 

The calamities of others dw 7 ell much upon my 
mind, when coming within personal cognizance; 
sometimes with great gratitude; sometimes with 



320 LETTERS. 

timid apprehensiveness ; as if they must come to 
me next. I do not consider this last a feeling to 
be encouraged, because it is a prejudging of the 
Divine purpose, and a sort of self-influence not re- 
quired of us. I apprehend, that to think with 
grateful satisfaction how we are spared while 
others suffer, is a better thing, and equally efficient 
to secure sympathy, and make us to go softly. 
That I think of your daughter, and of your suffer- 
ing with her and for her, is not surprising, missing 
the continual pleasure of your letters, and know- 
ing that illness or sorrowful occupation is the 
cause. I will hope not the former. Can I do any- 
thing for you, say anything to you, or anything 
about you, in all your suspended labours ? 

I am quite settled in again for the winter, and 
hope, if health and peace is granted, now to com- 
plete the book some time in hand. We are think- 
ing much, perhaps as often before, with exaggera- 
tion, of the condition of the sister island. At all 
hands, a trying winter seems preparing for the 
poor. I doubt not, because I have had too long 
observation of the fact, that something will turn 
out to lessen the difficulties that overhang. In 
public and in private, 1 have always seen it so. 
No calamity, no grief, no difficulty, proves as 
great in fact, as it seems in idea; and that by 
reason of some uncalculated good thrown provi- 
dentially into it. Have you not seen it so, not as 
an accident, but as a rule in the Divine economy? 
I think I have, and it makes me always rather 



LETTERS. 



321 



impatient of croakers and alarmists, in their talk 
of things to come. Nevertheless, we have much 
to think of, and much to watch and wait for, in 
the aspect of things around us. The secession of 
Messrs. Newman & Co., seems to me unmixed 
good : it will undeceive the conscientious and 
alarm the time-serving, who were following in 
their steps, but never meant their conclusion ; and 
I think it will open the eyes of the rulers in Church 
and State to all they care about: the political 
and hierarchical consequence of encouraging the 
movement. # # # I should like, for my own part, 
a more expansive besom, and a wider sweep. I 
suppose this union attempt at Liverpool is after 
your own heart. It would be after mine, if I had 
any hope of its success, but am fearful it will lack 
results. Nevertheless, it is worth the trial, for the 
sin of God's people is enormous : not by separa- 
tion from the church, or adherence to it, but by 
separation and disavowal of each other. I know 
nothing, however, of this, or anything but what I 
see in the newspapers and magazines; so com- 
pletely am I secluded here from the intercourse of 
men, religiously and politically informed ; there- 
fore am simply prating my own thoughts, for the 
mere pleasure of talking to you, I believe. I will 
trouble you with no more, lest it prove ill-timed : 
but must be, 

Ever most affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



322 LETTERS. 

LXXIV.— TO MRS. * * * 

December 31, 1845. 

My dear Friend, 
Very sensible of your great interest and feeling 
for me, expressed in your note, and well known 
before, I have yet purposely delayed writing, till 
a little further progress should be made in the 
treatment of my complaint, in hope to report sa- 
tisfactorily. Thank God, I am fully enabled to do 

so. I saw A again on Saturday, and he 

seemed quite satisfied, and almost surprised, I 
thought, at the measure of his own success. My 
general health meantime, is better than it has been 
for a twelvemonth ; my mind at rest, and my 
spirits restored. So I think you will say it ought 
to be as happy a Christmas, as gratitude can make 
it. I have been afraid to be too sanguine, lest 
another blow should come, but that is wrong. 
Thankfulness should not be kept in check by mis- 
trust; seeing that if disappointment do come, I 
have had proof that strength and guidance will 
abundantly come with it. I am more persuaded 
daily, of what I care most about, bodily; that the 
disease was an accident, whilst there is every 
reason now to believe, it will be entirely removed. 
Such is the aspect now; it may be otherwise; but 
I am trying to do, w T hat I am sure, it is best to do, 
to live each day separately, enjoying its own good, 



LETTERS 



323 



submitting to its own evil; but not losing the bene- 
fit and present grace of either, in looking forward 
to what may be hereafter. If we did always so, 
few days there would be, in which thankfulness 
for good possessed, would not preponderate; and 
those few r would not be farther darkened, by appre- 
hensions and regrets. It is my nature to be too 
timid, too apprehensive, too imaginative of unreal 
evils; but this is not creditable to faith and love, 
and I would have it otherwise. " He shall be de- 
livered from fear of evil," is a great promise. 
Thank you, dear, for all you write, of kindly and 
of spiritual feeling. You are very kind to propose 
• •#'*. We made our yearly visit at Christmas 
in town, and may not at present egress again. 
Indeed I am too marvellously well to make it at 
all necessary: — there have been times and may 
be again, when I have thought it would be a great 
relief to stay a few days with friends, to change 
the current of things ; and should such return, I 
shall remember what you said, and ask you if it 
will suit you to receive us. Every kind wish and 
blessing of the season, to you and yours. 

Very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



324 LETTERS. 



LXXV.— TO MRS. M . 

May, 1846. 



My dear Mrs. M- 



Thank you, dear, for your salutations, pleasing 
reports, and kind inquiries. I thought on you on 
Sunday. I cannot say wistfully. I had made up 
my mind to a dies non, so far as human minis- 
trations are concerned, whereas my exhilarated 
spirits, and the delights surrounding me, supply at 
once the temple and the music. I am so much 
belter, so different to my own feelings. I had a 

mind to ask you, if the Mrs. W of Queen's 

Terrace is still there, so little can I believe that 
this is she. The weather has been so exquisite, 
the place is so beautiful, I cannot tell you how 
much we are enjoying it ; perhaps it needs the long 
and dreary weight of dulness that has been upon 
me, to feel the delight of being again alive, in full 
enjoyment of God in his works, and of his works 
in him. In these best moments, when the soul 
goes free of earthly pressure, we do not feel the 
need of earthly help; but, alas! the pressure will 
return, and because " the well is deep/' we then 
need the stronger arm to help us to draw there- 
from ; and very sad, and very saddening it is, that 
with three churches, the several ministers of which 
seem really intent to do their duty, and two or 
three curates beside; the preaching is so ineffi- 



LETTERS. 



325 



cient, one can scarcely suppose a slumbering soul 
wakened, or a waking one elevated by any one of 
them. Well, well, in that blest time you talk of, 
we shall have done with our rushlights; to fear 
their removal, or bewail their dimness, where 
neither sun nor moon will be any more needed, 
but " the Lamb is the light, thereof." Aye truly, 
as you suggest, if this exquisite creation be the 
place accursed of our captivity, what will be the 
beauty, call it earth or heaven, of our kingly 
dwelling-place, when we reign with Christ. The 
two last words comprise all I know, and all I care 
about it. I am delighted to hear my five children 
are better, all kindness to them and remembrance 
to dear friends. Do not expect us before Monday. 
I am afraid to look sadly glum when the time 
comes, but ever, 

Affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson, 



LXXVI.--TO MR. B . 

August 20, 1846. 

My dear Sir, 

Often in the thoughts of my head upon my bed, 

it has occurred to me "What must Mr. B 

think? no inquiries, no renewal of invitation, or 
notice taken of his illness." I have been very ill 

28 



326 LETTERS. 

too, worse than you, in some sense, since you seem 
to have been about your business. I have only 
wandered from room to room these five weeks. 
Illness, incident to the extraordinary season, I sup- 
pose, so dashing me, and laying me prostrate alto- 
gether, it is with difficulty I raise my head high 
enough to write even this. Do not come to see 
me now, though I want to see you, for half an 
hour's conversation would be a quarter too much. 
But write and let me know, at times, where and 
how you are, and as soon as I am stronger, I will 
answer you properly. 

Our Father thus lets us approach the golden 
gates, and peep through the key-hole. I see only 
brightness, what do you see? Oh yes, the book 
was done before this illness came. I have scarce 
wit enough now, to correct the press. 

We are going to the sea as soon as I am able. 

Mr. M is gone to travel for four or five weeks 

quite disabled. Every body is suffering except my 
precious husband, who is quite well; and shall add 
to this. I cannot, but am, 

Very affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LETTERS. 327 

LXXVII.—TO MRS. M . 

Hastings, August 31, 1846. 



My dear Mrs. M- 



Your kind inquiries deserve a more quick reply, 
but reports having gone to Woolwich, which 
would probably reach you, I thought to wait for 
an amended report. The time for it however is 
not yet, and we must wait God's further pleasure. 
I do not think I am better, I should say I am 
worse; but that one does not discern, between the 
sofa and the bed, how really ill one is ; and so it 
may be only, that I have discovered in attempting 
to perform the function of health, that I am more 
ill than I thought I w 7 as ; and do not, as I expected, 
recover all at once. Nevertheless God has favour- 
ed and prospered us in everything — all things turn 
out w r ell for us. Fagged out with the journey, we 
were so fortunate as to get good accommodation 
at the best hotel, the place being crammed, where 
we had to stay and abide the noise, waiting for 
lodgings on Saturday. Beautiful indeed is the lit- 
tle apartment we have got, the very best we could 
have; and beautiful all that we see around us. 
Then everybody is so good to the little suffering 
woman — strangers send her beautiful fruit, and the 
very waiters are careful of her. And then her 
precious dear husband is never out of her sight, 
enough at all other times to cure her of anything. 



328 LETTERS. 

This tender generous air, in contrast with our 
own, so ungracious and hard, it seems to me to 
blight what it blows upon, is so balmy and deli- 
cious, fanning you just as if it knew you were ill, 
and was afraid to hurt you ; as if God had tem- 
pered it! and so he has to his shorn lamb and 
feeble sheep. Then why with all am I not better? 
Perhaps because he does not mean I should be. 
Be it so, even as he will ; I feel that in being here, 
we are doing, as well as waiting, his pleasure; 
which I did not feel, so long as I refused to try the 
most probable means of restoration, unequal as I 
really did feel to the exertion. 

Here I can be much in the open air, sitting on 
the shore, or drawn about in a chair, and even 
from my window breathe in the sea. In appetite 
and cheerfulness I have greatly gained, but my 
breathing is worse, &c, &c. My husband is 
getting anxious in not having medical advice. 

Tell Mr. B this if you see him, and that he is 

in some hurry to hear from him in answer to his 
letter. Thus you see, dear, whatever be the final 
issue of my illness, I have nothing but mercies and 
loving-kindness by the way; say rather indulgences 
of every kind, which thousands more suffering can- 
not have. I wish that you were all here, except 
that I believe a more bracing air might suit you 
better, — St. Leonard's to wit, which I hate ; this I 
love. If you are kind enough to write again, do 

not omit any news you may have of Mr. M -, 

as well as the health of your fever-patients, and 



LETTERS. 32Q 

anything that may have been heard of the health 
of our man of God. This is a great letter for 
these times; pray for us, not for life or death, but 
for strength to wait and bear. With all love to 
the loved, 

Ever affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXXVIIL— TO MRS. * * *. 

Hastings, September 4, 1846. 

My dear Friend, 
Too long neglected. For the feelings of my 
kind friends, as well as my own idleness, the bulle- 
tins were safest in my dear husband's hands, so long 
as he could throw his couleur de rose upon them. 
But now it is time that I speak for myself. I am 
not getting better, dearest, I have never thought I 
was: but rapidly worse since I came here, in res- 
pect of my breathing, which must be the material 
thing. We have called in the soberest and most 
experienced man we could find, who, having plied 
me with the stethoscope, pronounces my left lung 
to be consolidated ; so accounting for all the dis- 
tressing symptoms. If this is so, and I see no rea- 
son to doubt it, though my precious husband would 
fain be incredulous still, it becomes simply a ques- 
tion of time and amelioration. Unless I greatly 

28* 



330 LETTERS. 

improve in a few days, of which 1 see no promise, 
we shall leave this place and make progress to- 
ward London; staying perhaps at Tunbridge 
Wells a week, and perhaps elsewhere, to see if 
any change makes any difference. If not, some 
London physician must sign the warrant, and we 
must proceed to counsel what is to be done. 
Should his chariot-wheels be slow in coming, a 
mild, dry nook that might allow me still to take 
the air, and feel the sun, would greatly ease the 
yet remaining way ; whereas at Woolwich there 
is no prospect for me but my bed. For my hus- 
band's sake, I would have all done to prolong, 
what for me cannot be too short; but the almost 
convulsive agonies I sometimes suffer for want of 
breath, makes such continuance doubtful, unless 
change of place relieves it. I know I am afflicting 
you, my dearest, by all this. You scolded me at 
Woolwich for the hint I dropped in the form of 
wishes. I had a prescience then of what was 
coming, without a good reason to give for it. 
But why did you scold me? More than one 
hand, and young hands too, have given mine a 
shake of congratulation to-day, on hearing the 
doctor's fiat, and washed they might go too. Why 
not so, dearest? Were you ever parted from 
your best beloved, and felt no wish to join him 1 
That is impossible. There is but one counter- 
thought that stays the prayer: for that one I keep 
silence and say nothing. At present I suffer only 
in my breath, but it is great distress at times. 



LETTERS- 331 

Thank yon, these chairs are perfectly comfortable 
to me. With no other exercise, even the shaking 
is beneficial, and my moments of greatest ease are 
when drawn through these soft soothing breezes. 
Gladly would I live and die in this sweet place, 
endeared to me by many recollections, chiefly of 
those I am shortly to rejoin. But that may not 
be. We must be near to London, and I trouble 
you with all this, because I feel the friends who 
love us could do us no greater good at this junc- 
ture, that to suggest the place wherein to wait, 
least painfully, the final issue. We talk about 
Streatham, Brixton, Clapham, Richmond : but we 
know too little of the localities to judge. If you 
can advise us, do. I am not of those who run 
about the world to prolong a doomed life at any 
cost, but I have seen long illnesses so lightened by 
keeping out of doors, to even the last hour, espe- 
cially in consumption, that I cannot help dreading 
my cold mansion at Woolwich, whence egress 
would be impossible. I am now not properly able 
to walk up stairs, and shall probably not long be 
able to walk at all; not for want of legs, but want 
of breath ; however, to change seems difficult. 
" God will provide." If a few months be all, it 
very little signifies. Now write to me, and tell me 
that you will not fret. I know you love me, but I 
can render you nothing but to love again, and that 
I will do in heaven. 

Tell dear Mr. B to comfort and uphold my 

precious husband, who will not yet give his con- 



332 



LETTERS. 



sent to let me go. I would I could take him with 
me ! Excuse this almost first note I have written, 
too full of all but what I wanted to say, dearest. 
Most affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



■ » 



LXXIX. TO MRS. * * * 

Hastings, Sept 5, 1840. 

My dearest Friend, 

It is my fault you have not heard. I claimed to 
write myself, for surely best from me to your fond 
heart will come the news that you will call sad ; 
and compassed, blessed, embraced as I am with 
kindest interest on every side, I have scarcely a 
right to say it is not sad that will make others so; 
though not myself. My illness has increased, the 
serious token of it with extraordinary rapidity. 
My breathing is terrible, and obliged us to call in 
advice here; and the stethescope having been ap- 
plied, there seems no doubt it is a consolidation of 
the left lung. Dearest, God has spoken, and we 
have no more to do. If this be true, it is only a 
question of more or less time, more or less tempo- 
rary alleviation. Never, never can it be sad to 
me to stand still and watch for the parting of the 



LETTERS. 333 

waters of Jordan to let me pass, and close on all I 
desire to see no more; and not from me can ever 
the cry be heard for a little more time to suffer 
and to sin, and wait and long for Him my soul de- 
sires. If it ever should be so, He will have cause 
to say I have held strange language with him here- 
tofore; when for very love, as I believe, I have 
entreated, implored, reproached Him that He 
w r ould not let me come to Him, when I could not 
be satisfied with any thing beside. No, no! — His 
Spirit will not let me be so false — to-night, to- 
morrow, if it be His pleasure ! But there is one 
thought that stays the prayer — my precious hus- 
band is not yet content; it takes him by surprise, 
he thinks a prolonged period of expectation, even 
without hope, would be good for him — would re- 
concile him — wean him — water and mature per- 
haps the Divine life in his own soul. If so, be it 
so. At least we must do all that can be done. 
Neither am I indifferent, if awhile his chariot- 
wheels delay their coming, how that interval is 
passed. A milder atmosphere than Woolwich 
is indispensable. Our house at Woolwich might 
soon be got rid of, but where find another ; our 
thoughts run many ways, mine run as they always 
did run, after my affections. I do not like to go 
where I love nothing. Then the gospel, its preach- 
ed voice I shall probably hear no more ; but to my 
husband, and in private to myself, the ministry is 

important. My choice is towards ; or ; 

- — perhaps itself will be too damp and low ; 



334 LETTERS. 

but is there not higher ground within a mile or so; 

or , or some common or other; — not a 

town, not a street, but where I may sit under a 
tree, or be drawn about in a garden, or at least 
breathe to the last the pure breath of heaven, and 
see nature's beauties, and hear nature's music. 

This is my whole desire if I live ; If I die imme- 
diately it little matters where. About those parts 
I have many friends, who would watch over me 
temporally, and sympathize with me spiritually. 
But you, dear, to whom, whenever I depart, I shall 
go more indebted for past kindness than to any 
other being left behind, need I say how pleasant it 
would be to me, to be near enough to see you 
more frequently; to receive the out-pourings of 
your own heart's sorrows; perhaps to lighten them 
by my own growing joys. All this must be God's 
arrangement if he wills it; for w 7 e are much at a 
loss. 

I tell it you, on the chance your knowledge of 
the neighbourhood may do us service. We came 
here on Monday. My daily increasing suffering, 
simply from my breathing — for I suffer nothing 
else — a difficulty amounting, at times, to almost 
convulsive struggles for existence, w T arn us to try 
another change. 

We mean to go to Hawkhurst for a night or 
two ; thence, if we can get lodgings, to Tunbridge 
Wells. Monday or Tuesday you might write to 
the former, afterwards to the latter place, to the 
post-office. I have written more than I am well 



LETTERS. g 35 

able, and should write to many others. Give 
prayers to us both — most for the comfort of my 
most dear and precious husband. This must be 
all now. If there be time, I shall have more, much 
more to say. Bless you, dearest. 

Yours, most affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXXX.—TO MRS. M- 



Hastiiigs, Sept. 6, 1846. 

Dear Mrs. M , 

The Sabbath bells have rung you to church, and 
hundreds of others; among the rest, my dear dis- 
tressed husband, unused to break the bread of 
peace alone; may Jesus comfort him ! it is my only 
care. I want to tell you how much brighter a 
Sabbath I am allowed to contemplate; not through 
the key-hole now, the door itself is opening. My 
illness has taken a more serious character, is con- 
sidered now to be upon the lungs, and capable of 
nothing but alleviation: longer or shorter as the 
progress may be. Too soon for me, the bright 
dawn cannot come, who have grown so sadly 
weary of the night; nay on that very night itself 
a light has come, that was not there before, since 



336 LETTERS. 

I was told the fact, cheering the dark, and making 
the fair more beautiful. But the blow has come 
suddenly on my precious husband, and he thinks 
if I linger awhile, even in sickness, and without 
hope, he shall be better reconciled and profited by 
the prolonged warning. If this be so, I am con- 
tent to wait. At present I only suffer from dis- 
tressed breathing, and utter incapability of any 
kind of effort. As I am getting manifestly worse 
every day, we are advised to leave here immedi- 
ately, to try another change. We propose to-mor- 
row to move to Hawkhurst for a night or two, and 
thence to Tunbridge Wells, if we can secure fit 
accommodation ; if not, somewhere toward home. 
I hope no new troubles have prevented your writ- 
ing to me. I feel very anxious to hear of the 

M s, unheard of when Lady W wrote. I 

do not think of your hearing him to-day, but trust 
he may be on the return, with renewed powers, to 
warn the happy, and to cheer the sad, with his 
most blessed message. 

By me, the voice of the charmer, charm he ne- 
ver so wisely, will probably be no more heard from 
the pulpit. We do not want, by day-light, the 
guiding stars of night: provision for the living, 
not the dying* Nevertheless, if I reach home with 
breath enough remaining, I do hope yet to speak 
with all my friends again of the past and coming 
things, in which we take mutual pleasure. The 
difficulty of speaking is a great distress to me now, 



LETTERS. gg7 

wishing to talk more with my husband, of what 
can be no longer kept out of sight; nevertheless, 
there may be more time allowed for this. We 
shall probably be at home within a fortnight, even 
if no more pressing symptoms bring us forward. 
If it appears probable I shall live the winter, it 
must not be at Woolwich, I apprehend ; if not, it 
little matters. God must give us guidance in this 
matter, for we know scarcely what to do, or where 
to go. Remember me most affectionately to your 
dear girls. Write to me, if you can, at Tunbridge 
Wells, unless to-morrow at Hawkhurst, and let 
me be, 

Ever affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 

Mr. B writes that people live with consoli- 
dated lungs for twenty years ! What a Job's 
comforter ! to one so nearly without breath al- 
ready ! 



29 



338 



LETTERS. 



LXXXL— TO MRS. * * * 

Hawkhurst, Sept. 8, 1846. 
My dear Friend, 
It is even so. He has heard my cries ; He has 
seen my tears; not to add unto my life fifteen 
years, — I have not asked him for as many days; 
but to turn another way the current of a disease I 
so peculiarly dreaded. So at least it appears, and 
if it so proves, remember, for encouragement, it 
is a direct answer to prayer. When I thought I 
had an incurable disease I did not ask a miracle 
to cure it ; but I did ask earnestly that something 
else might carry me off before the time arrived ; 
and certainly I never, so asking, left my knees 
without an encouraged feeling that some how or 
other my prayer was heard. Apparently now the 
answer is made plain. My illness has assumed a 
decided character, my lungs are affected, and 
faster or slower, I seem to be sinking into con- 
sumption. At Hastings, where I went to mend 
myself, I grew daily worse, and the doctor then 
first warned me of my real state. We conse- 
quently left it yesterday, to try other air, and move 
ourselves gradually home. In this sweet spot we 
rest ourselves a night or two, and proceed to Tun- 
bridge Wells if we get lodgings, but shall in any 
case make homeward next week. What next, we 
know not; if my life is likely to be prolonged, we 



LETTERS. ggg 

must remove for the winter. A little time will de- 
velope the more or less rapidity of that which 
seems to admit of no doubt and no remedy. One 
lung is said to be consolidated : and my respiration 
is so dreadful ! at times almost an agony. I have 
no other suffering at present ; but that is great, 
making me afraid to move or speak, lest I bring 
on a paroxysm. To you I need not say, how all 
this is to me: but my darling husband earnestly 
pleads for time : he thinks it would soften the blow, 
and increase its usefulness. God only knows that, 
and if it would I am content to linger. My dear 
friend, as many will hear, and will not understand, 
why I want no time of preparation, often desired 
by far holier ones than I : I tell you why, and shall 
tell others, and so shall you. It is not because I 
am so holy, but because I am so sinful. The pe- 
culiar character of my religious experience has 
always been a deep, an agonizing sense of sin: 
not past, but present sin ; the sin of yesterday, of 
to-day, confessed with anguish hard to be endured, 
and cries for pardon that could not be unheard ; 
each day cleansed anew in Jesus' blood, and each 
day loving more for more forgiven; each day 
more and more hateful in my own sight, and hope- 
less of being better; what can I do in death, I 
have not done in life? What do, in this week, 
when I am told I cannot live, other than I did last 
week, when I knew it not? alas, there is but one 
thing left undone: to serve Him better; and the 
death-bed is no place for that Therefore I say, if 



340 



LETTERS. 



I am not ready now, I shall not be so by delay, so 
far as I have to do with it. If He has more to do 
in me, that is His p^rt. I need not ask him not to 
spoil his work by too much haste. I try to ask 
nothing, for my loved husband's sake : but I am a 
timid and impatient sufferer. 

Now I know in all this, I am putting you to grief; 
but you must hear of it, if not from me ; and ought 
not to be left to do so. This is as much as I can 
write now. If power remains you shall hear from 
me again. Pray for me, and write to Tunbridge 
Wells Post Office. 

Very, very affectionately yours, 

Caroline Wilson. 



LXXXL-— TO LADY ****** 

Tunbridge Wells, September 16, 1846. 

Dear Lady 

Hardly, and with much delay, I consented to let 
my husband tell you that God has spoken now, 
audibly, and not in broken whispers, as of late, 
respecting my failing health. To lose the power 
of speaking or of writing, just when I feel I have 
most to say, is very painful to me. Doubtful now, 
whether they may be in any measure restored, 
seeing them at present diminishing every day; one 



LETTEHS. 341 

word I must have with you while I can. The 
bright, the blessed hour for which I have toiled 
and waited so many years; the panacea at all 
times of every painful, every fearful thought, has 
seemed in my spasmodic agonies of breathlessness, 
immediately at hand; of these I have been much 
relieved by a distinguished practitioner here. I 
cannot count the issue now by days, but whether 
weeks or months or years, it is, I believe, ina- 
vertible. 

It is sudden, but you know how welcome, as 
surely He knows, who has heard my cries under 
the loathed burthen of remaining sin, with almost 
reproaches, that He kept not his word, to fill the 
hungering and thirsting after righteousness. The 

relief derived by Mr. H 's treatment delays 

us here some days longer ; — then to Woolwich. I 
want to say some parting words of love and gra- 
titude and sympathy, but I find I cannot. Write 
to me, I can yet enjoy and profit by your words, 
and will repay by proxy if not otherwise. Believe, 
all I would but cannot say, 

Most affectionately, 

Caroline Wilson. 



29* 



342 LETTERS. 

This was the last letter my dear wife wrote. 
The night which followed was passed without 
much uneasiness; and when she awoke in the 
morning after a short sleep, it pleased God that 
she experienced neither pain nor the slightest rest- 
lessness of body; her voice was little altered, and 
her mind as composed and clear as before her 
illness. 

Finding herself much weaker, she said :• — " Oh ! 
if I die to-day, what a mercy! but the blessing 
w 7 ould be so great I dare not calculate upon it." 

Having taken her breakfast and looked out upon 
the beautiful sunny prospect which the open win- 
dow commanded, she exclaimed: — 

" I want no more of the world ! how dark is all 
behind — how bright the prospect before ! so un- 
clouded — so safe — so secure! Jesus! so true to me! 
I so untrue to thee ! whom have I in heaven but 
Thee — and there is none on earth I desire besides 
Thee !" 

At another time : — 

" This is my bridal day, < the beginning of my 
life.' I wish there should be no mistake about the 
reason of my desire to depart and to be with Christ. 
I confess myself the vilest, chiefest of sinners, and 
I desire to go to Him, that I may be rid of the 
burden of sin — indwelling sin — the sin of my na- 
ture — not the past — repented of every day — but 
the present, hourly, momentary sin, which I do 
commit, or may commit — the sense of which at 
times drives me half mad with grief. ,, 



LETTERS. 343 

Some very dear friends had come from Lee to 
see her. To Mrs. B. who was applying Eau de 
Cologne to her face, she said, " Oh ! if this is dy- 
ing, what mercy 1" To their daughter she said, 
" Jessie, I do not w T ish you to be like me, as I am 
the chief of sinners, but as I am in Christ." When 
they had gone away for a short time, I asked her 
if she would like to see them again. " Oh yes, let 
them come, what have they to hear but of the 
love, faithfulness, and truth of God — but at what 
time did they say they would come?" — "At four 
o'clock." " They must come soon, as I am sink- 
ing very fast." Afterwards she said; — "I have 
written a book to testify that God is Love ! I now 
testify that He is Faithfulness and Truth. I never 
asked a petition of God, that sooner or later, I did 
not obtain." 

About half past four, doubtless feeling that the 
desire of her soul to be with her Saviour was 
about to be granted, she said, " Oh ! I am sinking 
so fast !" These were the last words she uttered, 
and her countenance glowing with heavenly joy, 
at twenty-three minutes past five, she fell asleep in 
Jesus without a struggle. 



344 LETTERS. 

The following lines are taken from her "Poeti- 
cal Catechism ;" — 

Our home ! what spirit has not felt the charm, 
The untold meaning, hidden in that word 7 

Can any not recal one throb of joy 
That swell'd the bosom when that name was heard ? 

Far banished from the beings most beloved, 
Strangers and pilgrims on a foreign soil ; 

Where even that we have is scarcely ours, 
Claimants to nothing but to care and toil. 

Chill'd by a rugged and ungenial clime, 
Despised as aliens, taunted and disclaimed, 

What brilliant visions animate the soul, 
Whene'er our country or our home is named 1 

Heaven is our home — our best beloved is there, 
And there is all that we can call our own ; 

Treasures far other than earth's borrowed joys, 
There are our wealth, our sceptre, and our crown. 

What then is death 1 Is it the mournful shroud, 

The soldered coffin, and the sable train ] 
The brief inscription, and the mouldering stone 

That tells the careless stranger, we have been 1 

Mistaken emblems of unreal ill ! 

Phantoms that pale the conscious sinner's cheek ; 
Spectres ! that haunt us in life's gayest hours ! 

When Christians die, how false the tale you spoak. 

Far other visions crowd his closing eye ; 

Death comes to him a messenger of love — 
He hears angelic hosts their songs prepare 

To greet his coming to the realms above. 



LETTERS. 345 

He sees the Saviour stand with hand outstretched 
To wipe the tears of sorrow from his eye ; 

He hears the Father from his lofty throne, 
Invite him to his mansion in the sky. 

Behind him — he beholds earth's thousand ills, 

With all the folly of its mad pursuits ; 
And sin disrobed of passion's artful guise, 

Stands forth confessed with all its bitter fruits. 

Before — what mortal accents may not tell 
Something, life's grosser vision cannot see, 

The bright beginnings of eternal bliss, 
The gleam of coming immortality ! 



PRAYER. 



O Lord, hear ! O Lord, have mercy ! Thou seest 
what I am. The fear of thy judgments has taken 
hold of me, I am cast out from thy presence, there 
is no life remaining in me by reason of this oppres- 
sion. O Lord, how long ? Why dost thou not come 
unto me, to comfort, and to bless me. Have my 
sins separated between me and thee ? Is it to try 
me, and to prove me, and to show me what is in 
me? 

O Lord ! I confess my sin, and my iniquity is 
ever before thee. I have been wrong in every 
thing. Thou hast done every thing for me, and I 
have rendered Thee nothing. Thou dwellest with 
him that is of a contrite spirit ; a broken and a con- 
trite heart thou wilt not despise. Lord ! thou know- 



346 LETTERS. 

est my heart is broken, it is contrite, and trembleth 
at thy word. Now then I entreat thee to fulfill thy 
word, and speak peace to my soul. Lord! thou 
canst do it; I know thou canst; I know how great, 
how sufficient thou art. O that I could see thee, 
as I have seen thee in the sanctuary. I want nothing 
else — thou knowestthat I want nothing else. Jesus, 
Master, blessed, blessed Lord! O when wilt thou 
return and take me to thyself. Forgive me this 
impatience — if it be sin, O pardon it. Thou too 
wert tempted — thou too wert afraid, thou hast 
known the weight and bitterness of sin. O Jesus, 
pity; Saviour — help me, and let not the enemy 
prevail against me. Show me what it is that has 
offended thee. I am utterly purposed not to offend. 
I desire holiness more than my necessary food, — 
my soul is athirst after righteousness. I would be, 
thou knowest that I would be, conformed in all 
things to thy will ; but I cannot, O I cannot ! Thou 
hast tried my nature, thou knowest I have no power 
against my sins; I lay myself in the dust before 
thee. Wilt thou not, wilt thou not help me ! Speak 
one word of peace, that I may go on my way re- 
joicing. Speak the word, and there will a great 
calm. O God ! I will not let thee go, unless thou 
bless me. Thou ivi/t bless me, thou wilt keep me, 
thou wilt bring me through. Be quieted within 
me, O my soul, for I shall yet praise Him, who is 
the strength of my life and my portion for ever ! 

THE END. 



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